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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26744500">Finally Awake</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunDiiVith/pseuds/LunDiiVith'>LunDiiVith</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Fantasy Bigotry, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, I Am So Fucking Sorry For This., Incest shippers dni, Isekai-Adjacent, Stupid Sexy Primarchs, emeto cw, i don't like the term ''crack'' but this is what gets pings so, incest shippers do not interact, tags will be added as fic progresses, well it took a month but we're back on the grind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:20:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>38,073</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26744500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunDiiVith/pseuds/LunDiiVith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Kristina Amuan's fault. Inspired by <a href="https://twitter.com/K_Iragana_A/status/1307345736774819840">this comic</a>. Which I spoiled, I guess, but come on, it's been over two weeks, people.</p><p>Sanguinius dies at the hands of his brother and wakes up in a cart, on his way to Helgen. </p><p>(I have no idea if I'll continue this further than one chapter. I sure hope I do.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pain. Like no other he’d experienced; the slow numbness of his body succumbing to its wounds is an insufficient blanket for the alerts blaring through his nerves, the smell of his own blood clouding his senses, his stomach burning hellfire broken by the blade; the complete shutdown of the senses at the inability to parse anything of what was going on. The death of empires. Incoherent alarm; <em>I AM BLEEDING</em>. <em>IS THIS PAIN?</em></p><p>And then — darkness.</p><p>Unconscious but half-aware, a distant sensation. Impossible. As if being gently carried through his sleep. He can feel something pass him by, but what it was eluded him.</p><p>The darkness ends. Light — and a cold, sharp wind.</p><p>Bright Sanguinius, the Great Angel, is whole again, miraculously. Consciousness comes to him slowly. He’s lying down. He can feel some type of rope binding his hands together, his feet, his wings, cold air, a distinctive smell — Fenris? No, not Fenris, but. Similar. His armor gone, replaced with something thin, ill fitting. Being carried somewhere. On — something? — he feels through the thin clothes; wood, old and worn. He opens his eyes.</p><p>“Hey, you,” greets the man across from him, tilting his head to look at Sanguinius. “You’re finally awake.”</p><p>Sanguinius squints at him, confused. <em>Who are these people?</em> He tries to sit up and suddenly feels a sharp pain through his torso; he gasps.</p><p>"Easy there," the man across him tells him, gesturing with bound hands. "They found you near the border. Huge man like you, these Imperials probably want to study you. Us and that thief over there, we won't be so lucky."</p><p>"What are you talking about— Imperials?" Sanguinius says. <em>Where am I?</em></p><p>Another man near the other end of the cart, squished between a few blondes around the height of Sanguinius's knees, huffs. Afraid. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."</p><p>Sanguinius's eyes widen. "Lazy?!"</p><p>"If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The dark-haired man sighs. "You there. You and me — we shouldn’t be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."</p><p>Sanguinius blinks. "The... Empire?" He means the Imperium, right? This must be some local dialect. Where <em>is </em>he? Where has he gone— is he dreaming? He must be dreaming, he decides. He's been knocked unconscious by Hor— by the traitor and dreamed of some bizarre Fenrisian pastiche.</p><p>A strident voice comes from the front of the cart, asking them to shut up. The dark-haired complainer shakes his head, then points at the man in marginally more elegant clothes who's squished against him. "And what's wrong with him?", he hisses.</p><p>"Watch your tongue!", the first man chastises him. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the <em>true </em>High King." He gestures towards the man, whom Sanguinius can now see is muffled. A dream, he rationalizes. <em>Feudal worlders</em>? Some ancient fantasy like that stories found by Ma— the stories found years ago, by the Imperium, that he'd so greatly enjoyed. He could do this. Stranger things had happened to him. A high king. All right.</p><p>"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?", the dark-haired man babbles out, incredulous. "You're the leader of the rebellion," he adds, conveniently for Sanguinius. Rebellion. Noted. "But if they captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?" Nowhere good? He'll be hard to kill.</p><p>"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," the blonde responds. He seems like he's accepted it. Wait—</p><p>"Sovngarde?", Sanguinius questions, as the dark-haired man freaks out. "What is that?"</p><p>The blonde looks at him with confusion. "The afterlife," he says. "The place you go after you die?”</p><p>Sanguinius is about to ask more questions when one of the soldiers in the front of the cart throws a large cloth over him. "Can't let him be seen," the soldier says out loud, and then there's some chatter. The Primarch is too shocked momentarily to do anything; he then easily snaps his bindings. He tries to sit up again; the pain is still there, but relents enough for him to uncover his face and turn around a bit.</p><p>They're in a town. He can see people surrounding them, curious; quite a few sneak glances at him, but he's been effectively disguised as cargo. Not bad.</p><p>"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me," the dark-haired man prays. So they're <em>that </em>primitive. A problem for later.</p><p>The blonde man scoffs. "Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." Elves? A faint memory; maybe vaguely based on eldar. Xenos? Mutants? Crossbreeds? Sanguinius is unsure, but the possibilities aren't pretty. And aiding the Empire? Strange. ...He has no room to judge, but he doesn't have to like it. The man chatters on about the town, but Sanguinius only barely hears him; there is chatter among the crowd. Then, the tarp is thrown over his head again.</p><p>Sanguinius zones out. This seems real, yet could only be a strange dream. Maybe a particularly vivid one. Whatever it is, he'll deal with it as it comes. He hears vague chatter, something religious, and then the unmistakable sound of a man being decapitated, and another being shot with an arrow. He tries to sit up a third time and, though the pain is great (and unfun, which he's not used to), he manages to shed it just as screams start ringing in his ears.</p><p>And then Sanguinius looks up and sees a great beast, covered in black scales, breathing fire on the city.</p><p>He tries to stand on his feet, but it hurts, unfamiliar and yet foreseen, and nearly stumbles to the ground. He manages to stand, assisting himself on the cart, and steps down from it. People look at him and gasp. He flaps his wings; he's too weak to fly. The great beast roars when it sees him, and tries to set him on fire. Sanguinius dodges by a hair. Thank his Father for his reflexes. Everything — he belatedly realizes — is on fire; a child squeals and hides inside his home.</p><p>The great creature is perched atop a tower. Sanguinius runs across the yard, bare feet on a familiar mixture of blood and dirt, and jumps on the tower, grabbing its stone bricks from above. He climbs, teeth gritted in pain. The beast takes flight before he can grab it, and he lets go of the tower to jump to a next building. The floor collapses under Sanguinius's weight and he's on the ground, inside a burning building, watching an entire town look at him in awe. He grunts ungracefully and stands up with some difficulty. When he climbs out from the building, the beast is flying overhead, occasionally spitting fire on the people below.The town is done for, turned into ruins and ash.</p><p>Two men are arguing in front of him. The blonde from the cart — Ralof, according to his interlocutor —, and another one, a dark-haired man in strange armor — it reminds him vaguely of... Angron's? Well.</p><p>Ralof calls out to him, and Sanguinius follows after him, ducking under the door of some sort of building.</p><p>Inside, there are no windows. The ceiling's too low for Sanguinius, and he has to duck to fit. Disconcerted by the recent events, Sanguinius watches as Ralof discovers the body of a dead comrade and briefly mourns for him. Sanguinius puts his hand on his shoulder, confused but attempting to support his fellow man; Ralof dismisses him with a gesture. And then, Ralof tells him to take his gear.</p><p>Sanguinius stares at him, confused. "...His gear," he repeats, glancing at the body half his size currently lying on the floor.</p><p>"...Uh," Ralof says, an invisible script broken. "Might be a tight fit, true. We'll get you actual armor, eventually... But I figure you could still use his axe, right?"</p><p>I miss my power armor, Sanguinius thinks but doesn't say. Instead, he says, "The axe might be too small for me, too."</p><p>"Then we're in trouble."</p><p>"Not as much as you'd think," Sanguinius breezily replies. "I'm not as good bare-handed as some of my brothers are — were," he adds with a pang of sadness, "but I'm not too bad."</p><p>"You're a warrior?", Ralof asks, an eyebrow raised. He eyes Sanguinius's wings.</p><p>Sanguinius smiles. "Far more than that," he begins — but he's interrupted by a small group of other humans storming inside the room. They're wearing that strange red armor that reminds him of Angron's, once upon a time. The humans hold up axes and swords intimidatingly, but as soon as they see Sanguinius, they start cowering; of course.</p><p>Sanguinius gestures at the entrance with his head, looking at one of the humans blocking it in the eyes. His eyes widen and he pushes his fellow soldiers to the side. "Follow me," Sanguinius tells Ralof, and they make their way fairly uneventfully through the following catacombs.</p><p>The ceiling increasingly lowers; Sanguinius finds he has to walk through most of them practically bent at the waist, but it's worth it for his presence's (expected, but always welcome) ability to make anyone gulp and stand back. A few brave men try to come at him, in one later hallway, and Sanguinius doesn't even need to get his hands dirty; one push with his wings is enough to throw them to the ground, mostly unharmed, and after that they easily give up.</p><p>The dungeon turns, eventually, into a cavern. There's a constant background noise, like footsteps on gravel and water trickling through the cave, and Sanguinius's pupils widen a bit to accommodate for the lack of light. As they walk, Ralof occasionally glances at Sanguinius, then away from him, until finally, he asks,</p><p>"...Troll’s blood, what—where are you <em>from</em>?"</p><p>Sanguinius looks at him, and Ralof notices his strange eyes. "Baal Secundus," Sanguinius answers, a bit distracted. Still in high alert.</p><p>"Never heard of it. Where's that?" (To Ralof, the name sounds just a bit like somewhere in Morrowind — but this man doesn't look like an elf. He doesn't look like anything he's ever seen or heard of, except maybe some strange Daedric creature, or... no, he couldn't be — could he?)</p><p>"Orbiting Baal, in the Baal system," Sanguinius says. "A long distance away from here. Though, speaking of which... where <em>are </em>we?"</p><p>(Orbiting? System?) "We're in the province of Skyrim," Ralof replies.</p><p>"I'm aware. I meant, what planet are we on?" And Sanguinius looks back at Ralof like he hasn't said the strangest thing in the world.</p><p>"Planet?" Ralof frowns. "What do you mean? Skyrim is in Tamriel, and Tamriel is on Nirn— what <em>are </em>you?", he blurts out. He has the decency to look ashamed after those words, but Sanguinius takes it in stride.</p><p>"I am Sanguinius," he says, "Primarch of the Blood Angels Legion, son of the Emperor of Mankind. ...Though by how our conversation has been going, I figure that doesn't mean much to you."</p><p>"No, not at all," Ralof sighs. "Son of what Emperor, the current one?"</p><p>"The current one?"</p><p>"Titus Mede II."</p><p>"Oh, then no, it isn't him. My father does not have... a name." He’s never questioned it, but now that he mentions it, it’s a bit strange.</p><p>"And you're, uh— 'Primarch' of another Legion? Like the Imperial one?," Ralof begins, but Sanguinius shushes him. "What?"</p><p>"Living creatures, close by." Sanguinius is listening very intently to something. (Something completely inaudible to Ralof). "Large critters up ahead, some kind of giant—” <em>scorpion? No,</em> “—giant spider?"</p><p>"Frost spiders? Where?" Ralof turns around to look, but finds no spiders.</p><p>"Up ahead," Sanguinius says, "I can hear them crawling."</p><p>"...You have fine hearing, friend," Ralof sighs.</p><p>"You could say that," Sanguinius says, and then moves faster than Ralof can even see — reappears a great distance away from him, already grabbing a spider by one of its legs and swatting it ferociously onto the ground. It breaks. The liquid inside it leaves a splatter on the ground. Before Ralof can even process, Sanguinius is on the other end of the room, and two more spiders lay dead.</p><p>Ralof yelps with surprise and hurries forward. "How did you do that?" he asks, puzzled. "That was— you can’t move that fast."</p><p>Sanguinius smiles at him beatifically. "I am not a mere human. I am a Primarch, I've told you." His smile turns a bit more sheepish, and spider juice drips down the rags he wears. "I'm surprised you don't know of us— I thought all the Imperium was aware of our existence."</p><p>"The Imperium— you mean the Empire?" Ralof squints at him. The cave is darker here, in the increased absence of glowing mushrooms, possibly thanks to the spiders' nesting.</p><p>"No," Sanguinius tuts, "the Imperium of Man. ...Though, Imperium does translate to 'Empire' in some ancient language or another.” He attempts to pat his shirt dry, to no avail, ignoring Ralof’s confusion, and grimaces when he can’t get it clean. “Let's move on."</p><p>They walk quietly for a moment. Sanguinius's long strides take effort to catch up with, but Ralof just takes the time to think — try to process what is being told to him.</p><p>"...what I don't understand," Ralof finally says, "is what a <em>primark </em>is."</p><p>"Primarch," Sanguinius corrects.</p><p>"Right, <em>primarck</em>," Ralof says, nodding. "Is it some kind of— um." (This is an awkward question). "Are you... a daedra of some kind?"</p><p>Sanguinius frowns. "Daedra? What is that?"</p><p>"Spirits and beings, from Oblivion." (Or something. He doesn’t know the details).</p><p>"I'm not a spirit, and I don't come from Oblivion, wherever it may be." Sanguinius suddenly feels homesick, but not for a place — rather, for the time where he would've laughed at Ralof, told him there was no such thing as spirits. He was wiser now. He wishes he wasn't.</p><p>"So you're a man. A man with wings. Alright," Ralof sighs. "A very tall man with wings. A half giant?" (How can he be so tall, otherwise?)</p><p>"Half giant? Well, my father <em>is </em>usually about fourteen feet tall," Sanguinius replies, humorously.</p><p>Ralof nods. That makes sense. The wings— the wings he'll deal with later, but at least the height made sense. A half man, half whatever... huge creature... fourteen feet sounded too tall for a giant, but. Hm. He'd deal with this later. For now, escaping— the dragon, oh gods, he'd almost forgotten he'd seen a dragon— was the priority—</p><p>Sanguinius stops Ralof with a hand to his chest. "Something else ahead," he says. "Let me deal with it."</p><p>"Alright," Ralof says, nodding. "Feel free to… to deal with it, friend."</p><p>Sanguinius looks at him and nods back, once, and is then gone. After a second there's a distant roar, and sounds of struggle. Ralof hurries up after Sanguinius, but by the time he arrives, he finds the bear he was wrestling with is dead.</p><p>"...You wrestled a bear to death," he says, distant with surprise. "With your bare hands."</p><p>Sanguinius blinks at him. "What, like it's hard?"</p><p>"...Yes," Ralof says, astounded. "It should be. ...Let's just go, the exit's near."</p><p>When they leave the cavern, Sanguinius finds himself in a forest, with a dirt road moving down and along a river. Ralof tugs on him to duck behind a rock, but Sanguinius doesn't bother. It wouldn't hide him. The beast flies overhead and roars one last time, and then it's gone into the sky.</p><p>"Are those normal?", Sanguinius asks.</p><p>"Not at all," Ralof sighs. "...Listen. I'll be going to Riverwood, my hometown. My sister Gerdur runs the mill there, it's just up the road. If you have... nowhere to go, feel free to come with. I'd— I'm probably a wanted man, but someone has to tell Jarl Balgruuf about...," and he sighs and says, "fuck."</p><p>"Come with me," Sanguinius offers then. "You know the land. And I won't let them take you."</p><p>"I know very little," Ralof admits. "Just what I was taught, what I think is right, and why I fight."</p><p>"It's still more than me," Sanguinius admits. "About this land, I mean. Though, the reasons why I fight—", <em>fought</em>,<em> "</em>—have become... moot, with my arrival here. But I'm sure I'll find new ones soon."</p><p>"If your arrival's got anything to do with the dragon, then yes. Without a doubt."</p><p>"<em>Dragon</em>," Sanguinius repeats, unfamiliar. "I thought they were children's stories."</p><p>"So did I," Ralof admits. "And yet. ...Let's move on," he says, "you'll need someone to guide you to Whiterun." And he starts walking down the dirt path before them. Sanguinius waits a moment before following him, aware of his own speed, and glances at the bright emerald trees and crystalline rivers that dot this land. Unpolluted; was there nothing the Imperium needed in this world, or had the pollution not overcome them yet, choking out the skies with black and gray?</p><p>...Is this world aware of the Imperium? It doesn't seem like it. Why he'd be flung to it after being ki—<em>hurt</em> by his br—by Hor—by the traitor Warmaster, he doesn't know, though. But it doesn't feel like a dream, or like a vision. And if this world is real, he muses as he walks in silence, his duty is to bend it to the Imperium's will, as he's done thousands of times.</p><p>He has no power here yet, though. He'll have to do it slower. Open warfare, he's more used to— but subtlety isn't foreign to Sanguinius.</p><p>He’ll take this strange land on as it comes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>please fucking follow <a href="https://twitter.com/LunDiiVith">my evil twitter</a> or <a href="https://luwupercal.tumblr.com/">my atrocious tumblr</a> for even worse takes on the daily. if i get enough people to laugh at this or if my brainworms will it, i will post a second chapter. kthxbai</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi everyone! so... you guys really liked the first chapter huh. being encouraged like this is something ive never experienced before with fanfiction... i know it'll probably die a bit down from the first chapter, since i won't have as much coverage and since it's been a hot minute since my inspiration to write this was posted, but i hope nonetheless anyone who sticks with this enjoys it. i'll be pouring love into it that's for sure</p>
<p>a funny story about writing this chapter is that while i was doing that i came to the realization that this fic is basically an isekai anime, but instead of the protagonist being a random guy it's Sanguinius Warhammer. so if you see me giving Sang a harem in this fic don't worry about it it's (mostly) on purpose.</p>
<p>stay safe, friends!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sanguinius stands outside the small village under the midday sun. He's staring off into the distance, over the river crossing the tall, tall mountains.</p>
<p>He still isn't sure if this was a dream or not. He's going along with it, but it was increasingly... both hauntingly familiar, and shockingly foreign. It's making him homesick. And there is a strange weight somewhere behind his ribs, where a question has lodged itself: <em>Would he be able to return home?</em></p>
<p>Is Horus dead? Is his father? He doesn't know. He hopes for the best, that his— fuck, it kills him to admit this, but he sincerely hopes his brother is dead. And his sons— he misses them so much. Will they be okay without him? Will any harm come to them? Will their flaw be discovered? How will his disappearance hurt them? They're probably thinking him dead.</p>
<p>Sanguinius breathes in shakily, feeling frustrated and worried tears prickle his eyes. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. <em>Please be okay</em>, he thinks towards his brothers — the ones who'd remained — and towards his sons, and towards his father. <em>Please stay safe, stay united, stay strong. I'll come as soon as I can.</em></p>
<p>A noise startles him. Sanguinius turns around, wings suddenly fluffed, and makes eye contact with some — some fucking kind of mutant? It has white hair, an ugly sharp face, black eyes and — knife ears.</p>
<p>An Eldar? Here?</p>
<p>They stand in silence, both completely still. A bird whistles in the distance. Sanguinius is focusing all his will in not ceding an inch to it, and the eldar is completely frozen with fear.</p>
<p>"Sanguinius?", Ralof calls out, and both he and the Eldar turn towards him. He approaches, and the Eldar skitters away, dropping some of the wood it's been holding. Sanguinius tries to step after it, but Ralof places a hand on his arm and the primarch turns to look at him. "Where are you going?", Ralof asks, lightheartedly. "Oh," and his gaze turns to the fleeing Eldar, "I see you've met Faendal."</p>
<p>"You've got Eldar here?", Sanguinius asks, worried.</p>
<p>"Eldar? What's an eldar?" Ralof scoffs. "Faendal's just a wood elf, don't mind him."</p>
<p>"Elfs..." Sanguinius muses. He remembers, again — some creature from one of Magnus's books, like Eldar, but peaceful? "What are... elfs, here?"</p>
<p>Ralof squints. "You don't know what elves are? They're just— people. Not men. They live longer, do magic sometimes. Call themselves 'mer'. There's wood elves like Faendal, from Valenwood, dark elves from Morrowind, and those damn high elves from Summerset." He squints spitefully when he talks of the high elves. "And, eh— orcs I suppose, but they're different from other elves."</p>
<p>"So they're more like mutants," and Sanguinius presses the side of his hand to his mouth, investigative. "Are they— tolerated here?"</p>
<p>Ralof blinks. "Tolerated? More than that," and he huffs. "The Empire's bending the knee to these damn elves. It's why us Stormcloaks fight. To separate ourselves from the Empire, so we can do what we want and fight any damn elves we please."</p>
<p>Sanguinius smiles at Ralof, eyebrows raised, curiosity piqued. "That's a noble pursuit," he says. "These elfs, they remind me of — something, from where I come from," he adds. "If they're anything like them, I understand completely."</p>
<p>Ralof sighs, crosses his arms. "You really don't know," he muses. He then briefly explains the Stormcloaks' conflict with the Thalmor. He's successful in capturing Sanguinius's attention until he gets to Talos.</p>
<p>Sanguinius hears about how they fight to have the right to worship a god and his face sours. "You shouldn't," he says, bitter. "Gods bring nothing but harm."</p>
<p>Ralof blinks at him in disbelief. "What do you— Talos was a man once," he says. "He looks out for us."</p>
<p>"Anything that calls itself a god looks out for no one," Sanguinius says, defeated and angry. "I should know. My brother— my brothers betrayed our father, tried to ruin his life's work, because they were corrupted by evil powers." He's trying to control his voice, but it's hard. "My father always said there were no such things as gods... I'm not sure anymore. But something drove my brothers to the brink. Something turned Magnus into a shell of his former self. Something corrupted Fulgrim into the worst kind of scum. Something turned Mortarion into a monster. Something finally broke Angron, something pushed Perturabo to ruination, something validated all of Lorgar's worst beliefs... and something made my brother Horus stray from the path." He's holding back tears now, furious. "And whatever it is, that something deserves better than your worship. ...Curze and Alpharius were, uhm..." he notes, a bit awkwardly, stiffling a hiccup of desperate laughter, "...they were always on the brink of betrayal, though, I feel."</p>
<p>Ralof's eyes are wide, but he shakes his head and he pats Sanguinius's back as high as he can reach, comforting. "Whatever did that to your family, it wasn't any of the Divines," he muses. "They'd never do anything like that. Maybe a Daedric prince messed with your brothers? But that's dangerous."</p>
<p>Sanguinius breathes out, shaky. "Forgive me if I don't trust you to not have been duped," he says. "Though this is a distant land. Perhaps your gods are entirely fictional, instead of simply disguises for whatever did — <em>that </em>— to my brothers."</p>
<p>Ralof laughs. "They're not fiction, I can tell you," he boasts. "I've seen miracles happen. I've seen Ulfric Stormcloak use the Voice. They're good gods, Sanguinius, and I'm sorry your life has left you distrustful of them."</p>
<p>"I'll believe miracles when I see them," Sanguinius replies, skeptical and tired. "...Have you spoken to your sister?" His sister, Ralof had mentioned her on their way here. Sanguinius hadn't wanted to worry the townspeople.</p>
<p>"Yes, she'll be keeping my things safe. Gave me new armor to change into, maybe not immediately alert the guards that I'm a wanted man," Ralof nods. "She's got room for us to rest before we leave for Whiterun."</p>
<p>Sanguinius tucks a lock of golden hair behind his ear. "How far is Whiterun?"</p>
<p>"Not too far away, a few hours' journey. If we leave now, we'll reach it by sundown, but...," and Ralof sighs, "I don't know about you, but I'm beat."</p>
<p>Sanguinius presses a hand to his ribcage, where a bubbling, burning pain still resides. "...yes," he admits, "I'm tired, too. I'd like to rest. Will I just— Do I just walk into town?," he adds, overly-aware of how tall he is, compared to baseline humans.</p>
<p>Ralof chuckles. "Well, Faendal's already seen you, and if he's seen you Camilla's seen you, and if Camilla's seen you Lucan's seen you. And if Lucan's seen you, everyone's seen you. It's a small town, everyone knows each other."</p>
<p>"Then let's go to your home." Sanguinius realizes, belatedly, he feels exhausted. Bone-deep pained. He could sleep for a month. He won't, he doesn't think, because Ralof is waiting for him, but. He's wounded and his healing factor seems like it's about to cannibalize him if needed be, and his wings ache. He stretches one, glances at it, testing it mindlessly. From the corner of his eye he sees Ralof stiffen, still disbelieving. Maybe after resting, he'll be able to fly again. For now he follows the blonde to his home, ducking under a stone bridge and walking up a thin path.</p>
<p>And as the morning sun threads through his hair and his footsteps are crunchy with gravel and he feels the stares of a dozen curious villagers Sanguinius realizes how lucky he is, that he'll be able to have another flight. That his last flight wasn't truly the last. And this truth sort of settles inside him and reinforces his weary bones, and gives him the strength to duck under the door to the cottage, beeline for a clean-looking corner near the fire, curl up in a ball in its warmth and finally, finally go to sleep.</p>
<p>He doesn't wake up until someone pours water over his head.</p>
<p>"Ah!", and before Ralof realizes Sanguinius has tackled him to the ground, hands on his chest. His wet hair hangs around their faces for a second, and then the Great Angel scrambles back, embarrassed.</p>
<p>"Uh— good evening, Sanguinius," Ralof says, scared out of his wits and more than a little flushed. He's changed his clothes, still tough leather but now with no trace of blue on him.</p>
<p>"...good evening," Sanguinius replies. He breaks into a sheepish smile. "You startled me."</p>
<p>"I see that," Ralof replies, a bit useless. "Uh." He blinks, refocusing. "Dinner is served, and Gerdur's made something for you." He stands up, and Sanguinius watches him walk to a table to bring him a thick, folded bundle of cloth. Sanguinius takes it and extends it; a lot of furs, sewn together and onto a tablecloth, to make a cloak.</p>
<p>He looks back up at Ralof, who’s holding the back of his own head awkwardly.. "She hasn't had the time to make clothes your size," Ralof says, "but we couldn't have you getting cold."</p>
<p>"Ah—," and Sanguinius is flattered, but the cloak is. It's. It's... very obvious patchwork. There're wolf furs of different colours, and a bear in the middle, and it's bald on a few parts, showing the off-white tablecloth, complete with faded mysterious stains.</p>
<p>"Thank you," he decides. The intent is what counts. And while he doesn't feel temperature as strongly as baselines do, when he pulls the patchy cloak over his shoulders, over his wings, it's warm. <em>Maybe Leman would've liked it better here</em>, he thinks, and suddenly feels a pang of homesickness. He would've ditched the rags, too, would've just hunted some bears himself to sew himself a new wardrobe. He's a little regretful he never learnt how to properly skin an animal, until he remembers Konrad Curze's wardrobe, and decides maybe this particular trip into memory lane should be cut short here.</p>
<p>Ralof nods when he sees Sanguinius stand up , turn a little in his new cloak. "You won't be the best dressed at the Jarl's court," he says, "but you'll do. All you need now are boots."</p>
<p>"I'll be fine without them," Sanguinius replies. "I can always fly to Whiterun."</p>
<p>Ralof stares at him. "Ah, so those wings do work," he says, shaken but light-heartedly, pushing through. "Don't leave me behind," he adds, half-joking.</p>
<p>"Of course not— you've been my guide so far," and Sanguinius smiles at Ralof. "I can probably carry you," he muses. "Ah, but— you said dinner is ready?" He's starving.</p>
<p>"Gerdur and her family are eating at the inn tonight," Ralof replies. "She's left food behind for us, though. She says she doesn't want anything to do with giant winged men, and I can hardly blame her." He shrugs. <em>What can you do.</em></p>
<p>Ralof sets the table and minimally prepares the food. Sanguinius attempts to help him, but everything is too small for him. Ralof finally just shoos him until everything's ready, and then Sanguinius kneels at the tiny table to eat cold cured meat and roasted vegetables with Ralof. It's good, but it's nowhere as spicy as Sanguinius prefers, so he just makes small talk, confirming small details of the world he's landed in that he's been told of.</p>
<p>"And what kinds of people live in Skyrim?", he asks. "I mean— humans, and elves."</p>
<p>"There's also Khajiit," Ralof says, "and Argonians."</p>
<p>"They're not human?"</p>
<p>"They're beastmen," he elaborates. "Khajiit are felines shaped like men. Sometimes. Argonians are sort of— lizards shaped like men."</p>
<p>Sanguinius tilts his head and frowns, trying to imagine a cat standing on its hind legs, selling its wares. "Are they— sort of, more human, or more animal?"</p>
<p>"They're intelligent, if that's what you ask," Ralof says. "And usually about human shape, though I've heard Khajiit come in strange sizes."</p>
<p>"I see..." More mutants. Unlikely to be xenos, if they're people. "If they're men, I guess I can't judge," Sanguinius muses, "what with my wings." And with his sons, but he's understandably loathe to talk about this.</p>
<p>"Well, you haven't shown any signs of being a thief," Ralof says, light-hearted. He finishes his mead and puts the tankard down. "Alright," he says, "Whiterun is about a day's travel away from Riverwood. I don't know about you, but even if I rested earlier today, I pulled an all-nighter yesterday. Two late nights in a row is no good. We can leave tomorrow."</p>
<p>Sanguinius hmms, thoughtful. "You said dragons haven't been seen in a long time," he says. "This is an emergency."</p>
<p>"True, but we're only human, Sanguinius."</p>
<p>Sanguinius stands up from his kneeling position, steps closer to Ralof. "Stand up," he commands. Ralof follows, confused, pushing the bench back to stand before Sanguinius.</p>
<p>"Why—?", Ralof begins to question, but he's interrupted by Sanguinius sweeping him into his arms and lifting him up. The Nord goes bright scarlet red at being carried, and scrambles to be let down. Sanguinius gracefully lets him down and Ralof plops down on the bench once again.</p>
<p>"As I expected," and Sanguinius is smiling with amusement, "I can carry you."</p>
<p>"You— <em>trolls' blood</em>," Ralof says, "you sure can. Um." He shakes his head. "<em>What was that?</em>"</p>
<p>Sanguinius looks suddenly unimpressed with Ralof. "Flying is faster than walking," he says, and explains no further. Ralof looks away from the Primarch, eyes widening as he lets that information and its implications sink in, and breathes in deeply.</p>
<p>"...Fine," he says, "but only this once." (He can almost feel himself getting dizzy, and he doesn't want to throw up on Sanguinius).</p>
<p>"You'll love it," Sanguinius reassures him, "everyone does. Once they get over the height thing, of course." And he shrugs as if he hasn't just skipped over the most important part of the equation. Ralof gulps.</p>
<p>Sanguinius takes his plate, unsure of where to put it, before Ralof vaguely gestures at a counter and stalks off to the other end of the room. He sits down on a bed and holds his head in his hands. (How'd he end up in this situation?). Meanwhile, Sanguinius stands by the door, re-fastening the cloak into a makeshift thick tunic that lets his wings out.</p>
<p>"Well?" Sanguinius asks his companion, once he's sure the cloak won't fall off his frame mid-flight. Ralof looks up at him, exhausted.</p>
<p>"Now?"</p>
<p>"When, if not? ...You can rest when we've told the Jarl," Sanguinius adds. "I'm sure they'll have a bed for us."</p>
<p>Ralof looks at him, then roots through a side table and comes up with a sack. He pours out its content — two dozen golden coins — and stuffs it in a pocket. "Let's go," he decides. "Let me grab my axe."</p>
<p>"I'll be outside," Sanguinius says, and he opens the door and steps out of the house.</p>
<p>The night air is cold, and gooseflesh prickles along his skin. He's oddly glad, suddenly, for his cloak. He won't be cold after his flight, but it'll be nice later. Sanguinius looks up at the sky, thoughtful, and watches two moons, high in the sky. So this isn't Terra's past, a part of his brain currently theorizing furiously discards. At least he only has to travel through space, now. He's not sure why he's not dead, but to be fair, he's never died before. The thought makes him chuckle quietly to himself. He's still upset, though, unsure if he'll be able to return home at all. He feels a bit like a broken record, but when Sanguinius looks up to the sky and doesn't recognize a singular star, all he can feel is homesick. Wherever, really, it may be. However far from here.</p>
<p>A noise startles him, but when Sanguinius turns around, it's just Ralof. He's wearing a traveling cloak and has an axe hanging from his waist; there's a determined look on his face.</p>
<p>"Ready whenever you are," he says. "...It's north, northwest of here."</p>
<p>Sanguinius nods and picks him up. Ralof yelps with surprise, but settles in Sanguinius's arms. Sanguinius bats his wings once, stretching them out, and dust and leaves flutter away. Ralof looks at him with an unreadable expression. Sanguinius flushes, feeling a bit judged. He bats his wings once more and starts jogging, and then Sanguinius jumps — and lifts off above Riverwood's roofs at full speed, and they're flying.</p>
<p>The cold winds sweep through his wings' feathers, and Sanguinius laughs with joy as Ralof hides his face against the primarch's long hair. They're high, high above the green and the brown and the crystalline blue below, and below the clouds that simmer, great beasts of condensation. The dark, dark skies are studded with white pinpricks of stars and the distant shape of galaxies. Sanguinius veers a bit to the right and then to the left, watching the ground attently to follow a road that seems about right. Ralof, meanwhile, sneaks a glance below and starts sweating cold. They're up higher than he's ever been; he feels a cold sweat run through his body.</p>
<p>Sanguinius readjusts Ralof's position with a nudge, ignoring his yelp of fear. They're not even high up enough for the pressure to change, so while he knows exactly why Ralof's complaining, he's electing to ignore it. It's not that serious. Sanguinius then gets an idea. He squeezes Ralof tighter, and the nord can barely start asking why when the angel does a barrel roll — and Ralof squeals like a child. Sanguinius laughs at him, laughs with him with excitement to match his fear, and it's a beautiful, musical sound. (Though, Ralof is too busy trying not to throw up, methinks, to truly, really appreciate having the Great Angel laugh in his ear).</p>
<p>After a bit of flying, Sanguinius sees a road that spirals, winds up on a walled city. He circles a bit away from it, far enough to not startle anyone with his and Ralof's presence too badly. He lands on the ground running first, then walking and then stopping.</p>
<p>Ralof huffs in his arms, pale. Sanguinius lets go of him and he stumbles away from the angel to go dry heave into a bush a few feet away. Sanguinius giggles.</p>
<p>"You'll get used to it," he calls out as he adjusts the cloak, hiding his wings.</p>
<p>"<em>Never... again</em>," Ralof huffs from inside the bush, elbows sticking out. "Troll's fucking blood, Sanguinius, man isn't built to <em>fly</em>." He coughs again. "No offense."</p>
<p>"None taken," Sanguinius cheerily replies. "Let's go, we should be about an hour's walk away." They've only spent a couple hours flying; they'll arrive before midnight, easily.</p>
<p>"Give me... a moment," Ralof wheezes in reply. Sanguinius humors him briefly, but when Ralof takes just a bit too long for his liking, he picks him up by the back of his clothes and plucks him out of the bush and onto the road. Ralof puts his hands on his face and drags them down, groans.</p>
<p>Finally, they leave for Whiterun. They're both quiet at first. Sanguinius watches the night sky with interest as its unknown galaxies swirl and spiral. Ralof, meanwhile, readjusts his cloak and his axe and his belt, and tries to flatten his windswept hair.</p>
<p>The silence stretches for a while, long enough to be awkward. Night birds squawk in the distance, the rustle of the wind and the animals coming out to hunt. Distant tinkling, distant chattering, distant crackling — and, to Ralof, a distant Sanguinius. There's few people whose silence he can stand, and Sanguinius is not (yet) one of them.</p>
<p>"...What's it like, where you come from?" he finally asks Sanguinius.</p>
<p>Sanguinius still seems distracted. "What's what like?"</p>
<p>"Life, I guess." (He doesn't know what he's getting at. He's just curious about who his new friend is). "Who are you there?"</p>
<p>Sanguinius turns to look at him as they walk. "I am a Primarch," he says, "as I told you. I'm, ah— it's, complicated to explain what that means. It's sort of like a general, I suppose." (His strange accent almost reminds Ralof of the Rift, but that's not right. It's still different).</p>
<p>"You were a general?" Shor knows they need more men, the better soldiers the better.</p>
<p>"Y—yes," Sanguinius confirms, increasingly sure of the description. "I am Primarch — general, and more — of the Blood Angels Legion. My sons..."</p>
<p>"Your sons?"</p>
<p>"Ah— my men. They were— uhm." Ralof is a feudal worlder, Sanguinius remembers; he'll have to dilute it. "It's more complicated than this, but, ah— they <em>gained </em>my blood. My parentage. Weren't born with it."</p>
<p>"And they're now your... adoptive children?" and Ralof seems — not uncertain? Judgemental? No. Something else. Sanguinius just nods. And then Ralof asks, "And what if you die?"</p>
<p>Sanguinius laughs, a short, hysterical chortle.</p>
<p>"What's so funny?"</p>
<p>"I'm— I'm very hard to kill," Sanguinius elaborates. "Though..." No, he won't talk to Ralof about — <em>that </em>— yet. If he doesn't know yet, better. Betrayal has been lodged inside him like a bullet for nine years, and if he can forget about this weight just for a little longer, he'll be happy. "Well. No. Um. I don't know what will happen if I die. I presume they'll do something similar to what my brother Ferrus's legion did, reorganize around their first captain."</p>
<p>"Your brother Ferrus..." (Is he dead? How many do you have?) "Is he an, uh, <em>pry-march</em> too?"</p>
<p>Sanguinius nods slowly. "He was."</p>
<p>"Oh. I'm— sorry." Ralof seems a little stunned. "...I don't know what I'd do, if my sister died."</p>
<p>Sanguinius laughs, bitter. "And what if she were killed by a mutual sibling?" He regrets immediately revealing this, a nine-year-old pain stringing in his heart as if it'd happened yesterday. Ralof doesn't catch the brief furrowing of his brow, the snapshot of pain that quickly disappears from Sanguinius's face.</p>
<p>"...gods," Ralof says. "What a bastard. I'm sorry. ...Was it one of the ones you mentioned?"</p>
<p>Sanguinius nods wordlessly.</p>
<p>"Inbred wolfdogs," Ralof mutters. He realizes what he's just said like a slap in the ass and starts to tell Sanguinius, "No offense meant—", before laughter reaches his ears. Because Sanguinius can't help but chortle in shock at Ralof's passionate words. He's, like, wheezing inelegantly at the delivery — he can't help it, <em>it was so sincere!</em></p>
<p>"No, no, it's— pffft, it's alri-<em>alrihihight</em>," Sanguinius manages to tell him. "<em>Sands of Baal, that's</em>—" and he dissolves again into laughter. Ralof can't help but laugh too, so contagious it is. Sanguinius calms down after a moment and shakes his head. "No, that's, that's at least half accurate for a completely different brother, I'm sorry to tell you," he says, wiping his eye.</p>
<p>"Which half?"</p>
<p>"The wolfdog half, my brother Leman — he'd be right at home here in Skyrim, it looks just like his homeworld. He loves wolves. I don't know what it is. He's got a, a pack of wolves and wolfdogs as pets, I don't even know where he gets them housebroken—"</p>
<p>"Your brother sounds like a fine man," Ralof assures him. He's picturing another giant, winged man in Stormcloak armor, carrying a wolf in his arms. "I'd love to meet him."</p>
<p>Sanguinius's eyes twinkle. "When I return to my sons, if I ever come back to Skyrim, I'll be sure to bring him."</p>
<p>Ralof is about to ask, <em>where did you come from, anyways?</em>, when they're both distracted by the sounds of struggle. Sanguinius is the first one to see it: a group of people fighting some kind of—ogryn? He's not sure.</p>
<p>"A giant," Ralof says, surprised. "Are those— Companions?"</p>
<p>"Companions?"</p>
<p>"Order of warriors spanning back hundreds of years."</p>
<p>"And the, uh..."</p>
<p>"The giant? Probably picked a fight with them. They're territorial."</p>
<p>Sanguinius looks at Ralof, then back at the Companions, and he's gone in a second. Before Ralof can blink, Sanguinius has entered the fray and left the giant on the ground; it takes very little work from there for Sanguinius to kill him. The giant's eyes turn glassy as his soul leaves his body.</p>
<p>Ralof is tempted to whistle.</p>
<p>The Companions look at Sanguinius with awe. He's not a giant, clearly, but he's as tall as one, and his clothes are strange and hide a huge, bizarre bump on his back.  Sanguinius seems used to the staring; Ralof can see him ignoring it as he apologizes for butting in. One of the Companions, a red-headed woman, briefly establishes conversation with him. Sanguinius nods while hearing her words, tells her something Ralof can't hear, but she and the other two seem disappointed. As they leave, Ralof arrives by Sanguinius's side, and notes the giant's blood dripping from his patchwork cloak.</p>
<p>"What'd they say?" (Ralof can't help it; he's curious).</p>
<p>"Wanted me to join their order, apparently?" Sanguinius replies. "I'm— not interested, unfortunately."</p>
<p>"You must've impressed them," Ralof says, surprised. "I mean. It <em>was </em>impressive."</p>
<p>"It wasn't my best by a far shot," Sanguinius sighs. "I've broken daemons over my knee— some rowdy ogryn-giant is nothing."</p>
<p>Ralof decides to shelf asking what in Oblivion Sanguinius is talking about for now, and they move on.</p>
<p>By the time they reach the gate, Ralof's grown used to strange stares being sent Sanguinius's way, so he steps forward smoothly when the guards question them. "We're here to deliver urgent news to the Jarl," he tells them.</p>
<p>"Of what?" the guards ask?</p>
<p>"A dragon," Sanguinius interjects, "which I imagine he'd rather prefer to know about." He flashes his most charming smile at the guards, and they blink and open the gate without further questions.</p>
<p>The city of Whiterun is quiet, this late into the night. Sanguinius scans it as he's dragged by Ralof through the cobblestone streets and up several flights of stairs. One of them is over running water, and Sanguinius has to extend his wings to balance himself. Finally, they're at the gates, guarded by two men who stare at Sanguinius as usual, and Ralof steps back.</p>
<p>"You head in first, friend," he tells Sanguinius. "I'll— I'll hang back here."</p>
<p>Sanguinius frowns, puzzled. "Why?"</p>
<p>Ralof grimaces and raises a hand to half-hide his mouth. "When you met me, I was being dragged away to be executed, Sanguinius," he says. "I don't know how I haven't been recognized yet. This feels like tempting the gods." He gestures towards the door. "The Jarl will be in his throne, you can't miss him. If you need backup, call for me and I'll come."</p>
<p>Sanguinius looks at him for a moment, then nods and heads into the palace.</p>
<p>Inside the building he doesn't yet know is named Dragonsreach, the ceilings are high and the floors are stone and wood. And what Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun sees that fateful night is this: As soon as the servants put out the fire before he leaves his throne to rest, the most beautiful giant he's ever seen steps up the stairs. He messes with the fur cloak he's wearing until two unbelievably huge birds' wings spread from underneath it. The giant turns to look at him as he steps, barefoot, onto the hot coals of his firepit. Balgruuf suddenly feels a deep embarrassment, shame of his very existence, like he'll never be enough to be as perfect as this giant. It's like nothing he's ever felt. He sits up straighter. The glowing, winged giant faces him, not even needing to walk up the last few steps to his throne, and asks him,</p>
<p>"Are you the Jarl?"</p>
<p>Balgruuf nods wordlessly.</p>
<p>"I have urgent news for you," Sanguinius informs him, golden hair framing his face like a halo. "Dragons have returned to Skyrim."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter's a little longer than usual, hope it's not an issue ^^ it's also where i begin to flex my tes lore knowledge, though not majorly necessarily. also, there's a haiku in this chapter, see if you can spot it!!</p><p>anyways, with no further ado... here's the third chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What I don't understand," Sanguinius tells Ralof, half bent over to fit in the narrow corridor, "is why he thought he'd get away with the claw." </p><p>Their footsteps echo in the barrow's empty tunnels, and Sanguinius's voice echoes forward. The walls are dark and smokey from ancient incense, and condensation drips down onto the cobblestone floors.</p><p>"I guess panic clouds the man of everyone. The door did take care of it, though." Ralof shrugs. </p><p>"But why did he think he could outrun me?" He doesn't want to point out the obvious, like the giant wings on his back, but he really doesn't understand what Arvel was thinking.</p><p>"Well, he <em>did</em> outrun you." </p><p>"I <em>let</em> him," Sanguinius argues. "He just got himself killed thirty seconds after running away." He lifts himself up subconsciously and bumps his head onto the ceiling. Sanguinius grunts and rubs the crown of his head, already tired of this.</p><p>"Ouch," Ralof tells him in solidarity. "Doesn't matter, he's dead now. You've got the claw, right?"</p><p>Sanguinius wordlessly brandishes it before his companion. It <em>is </em>a very nice piece of jewelry — though it doesn't compare to some of the masterworks he'd seen, owned, and worn, of course. He spins it around a few times, feeling its carved underside.</p><p>Ralof nods. "Lucan will be happy to have this back when we're done," he mentions. "Wait, are those—?"</p><p>Sanguinius immediately spots them. "On it," he tells his companion, and before Ralof can even see the draugr are lying again on the floor, against the walls, their necks broken and limbs twisted. Several have been stabbed with their own weapons. Ralof hasn't yet ceased to be impressed with Sanguinius's speed and... it feels wrong to say this, but his efficiency at killing. Combat is supposed to be fair, but any scrap Sanguinius gets into is over in a heartbeat. He isn’t sure how to feel about that.</p><p>"Ralof?" Sanguinius asks from far ahead, hands dirty with grime, and Ralof blinks, realizing he's zoned out.</p><p>"Yes, yes, I'm following," he sighs and steps forward, and they keep walking for a while. </p><p>They wade through a dirty-looking creek and Sanguinius grimaces, unable to lift his wings up high enough to avoid getting them wet. As they walk, they talk about the undead they've just encountered; Sanguinius is no stranger, nowadays, to undead, but ones that are dry and devoid mostly of maggots or vomit are a welcome change. He's unable to pronounce <em>draugr</em> completely correctly, though. </p><p>Through a gate opened by a pulled chain there is a large hallway, a little taller, which comes as a welcome change to Sanguinius, and at its end there is a large closed stone gate with a puzzle for a lock.</p><p>Sanguinius inspects it with a frown and compares the claw to the holes on the gate; he shrugs and sticks the claw into the key-holes. Poisoned arrows shoot from the ceiling. Ralof yelps, hurrying away from them. Sanguinius turns to grin sheepishly at the very unamused nord, who huffs and, looking at Sanguinius, grips the door's second ring. </p><p>With some effort, the ring of stone turns. Sanguinius tilts his head and then has an idea; he flips the claw over and then he and Ralof spend a moment matching the reliefs up with the ones on the door. Finally, Sanguinius gestures to Ralof to stand back, to which he does (though he also hurriedly avoids where the arrows showed up last time). Sanguinius presses the claw into the keyhole, and though the door complains loudly, it still opens for them both.</p><p>A chill runs down Sanguinius's spine; he can't help but feel strange. Something in the air's shifted. Nonetheless, they continue through a suddenly-widening cavern in silence. </p><p>A winding path leads them up. Sanguinius suddenly itches to fly out of here — to leave Ralof behind even, if necessary — but he shakes his head and pushes past it. Whatever it is— he'll be able to deal with it. <em>You would have said much the same</em> <em>long before Horus fell</em>, something within him chastises. He shakes his head and, when Ralof looks at him oddly, smiles sheepishly to try to not worry him.</p><p>Sanguinius becomes briefly hyper-aware of the gentle swaying of his wings as he walks, and of his hearts' twin rhythm, and of his breaths, which fight valiantly to quicken against his superhuman physiology. He tries to distract himself by recording the details of the cavern, every dot and speckle and imperfection on the tall stone walls surrounding him and his companion. And then finally, before he knows it, he reaches the end of the path, a tall monument with stairs going up both sides.</p><p>"Alright," Ralof says, "something's clearly wrong. What's happening?"</p><p>"Nothing," Sanguinius bluffs, defensively rubbing his arm. It's not convincing, even to himself, so he tries to elaborate; "There's something up there. I can feel it."</p><p>"Something good, or something bad?"</p><p>Sanguinius thinks about it. <em>That's a good question. Something good or something bad?</em></p><p>"Something <em>different</em>," he replies. "Different from these— these <em>drawgers</em>, you said they were called?"</p><p>"You still can't pronounce it right," and there’s amusement in Ralof’s tone, but he's still worried. "Different <em>how</em>?"</p><p>Sanguinius huffs. "I don't know," he admits. "Something powerful. Shifting?" No, that's not the right word. Not something that changes itself; something that changes others. Something that very well might change <em>him</em>. "Let's move on."</p><p>They climb up the stairs, and Sanguinus feels Ralof's stare like daggers on him, but he ignores it. They reach the peak. </p><p>Sanguinius glances around and sees a metallic coffin, like the ones they've been seeing dotted throughout the ruin. By its side, there’s some ancient, ruined furniture, and a chest. He half-glances behind him, not expecting much, and</p><p>
  <em>YOU.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>COME HERE.</em>
</p><p>"Uhhh," Sanguinius eloquently says. He flaps his wings without realizing.</p><p>
  <em>LET YOUR DESTINY BE RESHAPED.</em>
</p><p>Unconsciously, Sanguinius steps forward. He takes two steps back as soon as he realizes; <em>what am I doing?</em> ...but, he then takes another step forward. And another.</p><p>
  <em>BLEED OUT TO FEED THE PYRE, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>AND BECOME HOLY ANEW.</em>
</p><p>"Sanguinius?" Ralof asks, but he can barely hear him. Every time Sanguinius steps closer to the Wall calling him, he hears less and less of the world outside him and more and more of a rumour, both foreign and familiar. </p><p>
  <strong>FUS</strong>
</p><p>Bright blue light fills Sanguinius's sight.</p><p>
  <em>NOT AS EXPECTED,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>ADA, SON OF ET'ADA,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>BUT YOU… YOU WILL DO.</em>
</p><p>The light fades. Sanguinius has a moment of silence to attempt to process this, before a scream reaches his ears. </p><p>"SANGUINIUS!"</p><p>He's up and turned around before the word stops ringing. He barely needs a glance to tell what's happening; Sanguinius lunges towards the draugr and overshoots, pushing both of them straight off the ledge. It tries to screech out something at him mid-flight. Its ancient jaw receives one well-timed blow that disintegrates it. Sanguinius hits the ground with the cold again corpse at full speed; the impact destroys the body and makes Sanguinius roll down from the monument’s base. He's intact, of course; but the brief burst of adrenaline is still exhilarating.</p><p>He breathes in and out. Heavy breaths, fresh in the cold air of the cave. A thread of hysteria is threading itself around his spine, weaving between his sharp nerves and muscles, and he realizes it's not the fight but whatever <em>that </em>had been, over by the glowing wall. Sanguinius only realizes by the sharp, metallic taste of his own blood that he's subconsciously bitten his lip and punctured it. A single red drop falls onto the shrunken corpse below him. He stands up slowly, and dust falls off his clothes; as Sanguinius stands, a tablet clatters onto the floor, and he picks it up only to realize — it's the same Dragonstone he's been sent to fetch.</p><p>Footsteps. Heavy, with boots— hurrying downstairs. "Sanguinius?"</p><p>The angel glances at the staircase; Ralof seems relieved at his gentle smile. </p><p>"I found the stone.”</p><p>"That wasn't <em>too </em>bad. Looks like your gut feeling was wrong."</p><p>Sanguinius frowns. "You didn't see the glowing wall?"</p><p>"The <em>what?</em>" Ralof looks at him as if he's grown a third head. "Sanguinius, what are you talking about?"</p><p>"The wall called out to me. It was..." <em>like his father's voice</em>, he doesn't say. He settles on, "Compelling."</p><p>"No, can't say the wall spoke to me. Is that something that happens where you come from? Baal— Fecundus?"</p><p>"No, can't say it is." He ignores the misnomer, despite it being utterly cringeworthy. He's wincing internally, trust me. "Well, I..." <em>guess I'll deal with this alone, like everything else</em>, he also doesn't really articulate, but again, it's what he's feeling. "It's probably not a big deal," he decides.</p><p>"Probably. Can't be too harmful, you're still fine... <em>and </em>you're hardy," Ralof notes. "Not even a scratch on you."</p><p>"Thank you, I'd noticed." A lilt of humor in his tone. "Is there any way to leave this cave, or will we have to return from where we came?"</p><p>Ralof shakes his head. "No, there should be some way out... let's look and see."</p><p>"Those stairs, maybe?"</p><p>Ralof turns around to look at them. "Uh. Yes, like those."</p><p>Their exit is swift, and soon they're both outside, in the midday sun. Ralof squints, unprepared; when they went in, it was barely morning. He's a bit woozy by now.</p><p>"So, ready for a third flight?" Sanguinius asks his companion, turning to face him. Ralof winces.</p><p>"Can we head for Riverwood first? I know it's urgent...", he puts a hand on the back of his neck, "but I haven't gotten to rest properly since we left for Whiterun, and that wasn't exactly a full night's sleep. I'm aching for a nap."</p><p>"Oh." Suddenly, Sanguinius feels silly. He's not used to spending time with baseline humans; not active time like this, at least. "Of course. Let's head back."</p><p>They make their way back to Riverwood over the course of a long, sunny hour. They don't have food on them, so Sanguinius occasionally hears Ralof's stomach rumble and feels guilty. He doesn't know if offering to hunt for Ralof will offend him, though, so he remains quiet.</p><p>"You know," Ralof mentions, "this wasn't what I expected when I decided to fight for Ulfric Stormcloak."</p><p>"And this wasn't what I was expecting the day before I woke up here, either," Sanguinius admits in turn. </p><p>"Life has a way to be surprising." There's a moment of silence, and then, a question Sanguinius hadn’t realized he’s been dreading: "What brought you to Skyrim, in any case?"</p><p>"I really do not know," he admits. "I just woke up here."</p><p>"Strange. You said you woke up here, had you fallen asleep?"</p><p>Sanguinius's face goes blank, and then he looks away. "I will tell you," he says, "<em>later</em>. Alright?"</p><p>"Oh. Uh. Noted." (A change of topic looks like a good idea). "My sister probably won't want us dropping by her home again like that. I've got some coin, we can rent a room at the inn."</p><p>"If you want to." Sanguinius still doesn't look at him, but his tone isn't as heavy. (It's a start). </p><p>Ralof doesn't say anything else on their walk, nor when they arrive to Riverwood, nor when they step through the doors of the Sleeping Giant inn; nor when Sanguinius scans the room, noticing the nervous glances the man behind the counter sends a blonde woman cleaning a table. He stands there, bent at the waist to fit under the low ceiling and mood-shifting-ly distant-eyed, as Ralof eats; and Sanguinius steps into the inn room Ralof rents with him and sits down, thoughtful, as Ralof sleeps.</p><p>What brought him here, anyways? Clearly, it wasn't of his own volition, or he would've gone somewhere he knew. It also doesn't... Sanguinius knows what he can do, and this isn't it. This doesn't feel like it. </p><p>So then, what brought him here? The— the traitor Warmaster's powers, perhaps? Have they flung him to some innocent distant world, or somewhere else entirely, somewhere more twisted than previously thought? Well, he hasn't been hurt yet. The people living in this world don't seem to be daemons. So perhaps it was a fluke?</p><p>Ralof shifts in his sleep, and Sanguinius catches it out of the corner of his eye. He grumbles something unintelligible. He's been a good companion, Sanguinius thinks; he's glad at least he's got someone to tell him how this world works. It's… a little worrying, though, that he fights specifically to worship a god. Sanguinius is trusting Ralof will be able to be converted to the Imperial Truth later, at least. Ralof is rational! He'll see reason. ...He <em>will</em>.</p><p>...But of course, there's that part of his brain gnawing at him, saying, <em>what if he's worshipping those same horrible powers that stole his brothers?</em> He tries not to believe it. Ralof shows no signs of having been corrupted. He doesn't <em>feel</em>, to the best of Sanguinius's ability, like he's sold his own soul. And Sanguinius thinks he'd be rather hard to trick at this point. Maybe a bit naïve, but then again…</p><p>Sanguinius busies himself finger-combing his hair for a while. It's soothing, at the very least. He pulls out a few hairs by pulling too hard on some knots, and notices the roots are already turning darker. Soon, he'll be back to his natural black. He wonders if they've got blonde dye here. Hopefully.</p><p>After a few more hours of Sanguinius wasting time, Ralof stirs awake with a half-formed grunt shaped like Sanguinius's name.</p><p>"Good evening," Sanguinius replies to the groggy nord. He examines his nails — they're just a bit too long — as Ralof rolls off the bed and falls on the floor.</p><p>Sanguinius raises one angelic eyebrow. "Are you alright?"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Ralof grumbles, "no thanks to you, mister Reflexes."</p><p>Sanguinius smiles beatifically and shrugs. "Sorry." </p><p>He stands and walks over to Ralof, offers his hand to help him stand, pulls him up when he accepts it. "Do you want to eat before leaving?"</p><p>Ralof opens his mouth to answer, but his stomach grumbles again before he can. Sanguinius giggles. This time, Ralof can hear the laughter hand-crafted by the gods-damned Emperor of (near-)All Mankind and his ears suddenly glow red. </p><p>"Uh, yes," Ralof says, composing himself the best he can, and then he nods repeatedly. Sanguinius just smiles and lets go of his hand. As he walks away from the room, Ralof glances with surprise at his own hand, and then stares at Sanguinius leaving.</p><p>Dinner passes by uneventfully. Sanguinius notices the woman from before isn't in the inn anymore and gets an odd gut feeling. He dismisses it; she's probably just out. Ralof and Sanguinius share a bit of conversation over dinner, playfully arguing back and forth on whether Sanguinius is doing the barrel rolls on purpose to mess with Ralof whenever they fly. Of course, Sanguinius defends his innocence, even if jokingly. Ralof grumbles and lets Sanguinius know that he'll barf on his first pair of boots if he does even one more barrel roll. </p><p>"Whenever we get them for you, anyways," he adds, unsure.</p><p>"I <em>would </em>like some new clothes," Sanguinius tells him. He brushes the shirt down; there's a large portion over his torso that's been worn threadbare. The various stains gained over the past few days haven't faded.</p><p>"Oh— right, you've been wearing those rags for..." Ralof blinks. "You were a general, wearing <em>this</em>?"</p><p>"Hm? No, I was wearing my armor. I just woke up in this." Sanguinius pulls at the neck of his shirt. "I don't know where they came from, to be honest." </p><p>They continue talking over dinner, which arrives by the hand of the bartender. Sanguinius notices he wobbles under the weight of the plates. He sips the decent-enough wine and takes a moment to let the last day sink in fully as Ralof talks about how strange it was to see his ex-something or other at Helgen; Sanguinius nods at the appropriate moments, but seems distracted. Once dinner's paid over and paid for, Sanguinius leaves Ralof to negotiate something with the innkeep and steps outside the Sleeping Giant inn.</p><p>After all, he's been meaning to stretch.</p><p>He extends an arm out to stretch out his back muscles and then rolls his shoulders. The reassuring thunder of stretched nerves reaches his ears. Longer flights are a bit of a workout for him, as he was cruelly reminded shortly after his first flight to Whiterun, so he's not keen on pulling something, as hard as it seems for a Primarch to do this.</p><p>"Sanguinius?" he hears, and he turns around. It's Ralof, with two pastries. "I brought you a sweetroll."</p><p>"Oh. Thank you," and Sanguinius takes one of the treats. It's cakey, with a nice glace. Him and Ralof eat the sweetrolls together; Ralof rubs the crumbs away from his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at him.</p><p>"Let's get going."</p><p>"Let's." </p><p>Sanguinius picks up Ralof, who's starting to get used to being held up, and takes off into the air. The flight doesn't differ much from their previous one to Whiterun, at first. Ralof refuses to look down, and Sanguinius laughs at him. However, just after Sanguinius does the barrel roll, he notices a dark silhouette against the lighter clouds.</p><p><em>That's not good</em>, he thinks. It looks like…</p><p>"Ralof?"</p><p>"Uh— yes?" His voice is shaky.</p><p>"Are there any other large flying creatures in Skyrim?" Sanguinius asks, in a calm voice.</p><p>"No, not that I— definitely <em>no</em>. Why do you ask?"</p><p>"Then I'm seeing a dragon on the horizon."</p><p>Ralof yelps. "<em>Talos help me</em>. Are you sure?"</p><p>"I'm sure I'm seeing something. Whatever it is, it's avoiding Whiterun to head further north."</p><p>"That's good news, at least... maybe it'll eat Tullius." A nervous bark of laughter.</p><p>Sanguinius doesn't say anything. He doesn't want to pick a side yet on this conflict, not until he can decide if these gods should be fought against, and how.</p><p>They land closer to Whiterun's gates this time. The guards hurry out of their way as they cross the gates. After he hands the Primarch the Dragonstone, Sanguinius leaves Ralof behind in a few quick strides; he's soon at Dragonsreach's doors. He crosses them and enters the palace, the creak of wooden floors announcing him beforehand, and he passes by the still awestruck court to return directly to the assumed psyker he's been told was considered Court Wizard.</p><p>Farengar doesn't notice him at first, chatting with someone. Sanguinius stays quiet. He's not eavesdropping if he’s in plain sight, right? The woman's voice and appearance is immediately familiar to him; it takes only a moment for him to place her, despite her (lack of a) disguise, as the woman from the inn. After a moment, she looks up and meets his gaze, and in lieu of sarcastically announcing Sanguinius's presence as she would've if he was anyone else, she elbows Farengar rather violently.</p><p>"Ow! What in—?!", the ‘wizard’ complains, and then his eyes fixate on Sanguinius. His entire body flushes red. "Uhhhhhhhhhhh," he eloquently tells the Primarch. Sanguinius is all too used to it, really.</p><p>"We've found the Dragonstone," Sanguinius tells him. He hands it off and Farengar receives it with shaky hands. By his side, the blonde woman seems rather taken with his presence, too. </p><p>"Ah, uh— thank you, thank you," Farengar rattles off, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.</p><p>Sanguinius smiles gently at him. "It was no problem at all." </p><p>Farengar seems to melt a little. He mumbles something nearly inaudible even to Sanguinius's ears about being <em>too gay for this</em> and then claps his hands over his mouth, even redder; Sanguinius pretends to not hear it.</p><p>"Um, you'll have to, uh," Farengar tells him, hesitant, "ask the Jarl for your reward. I'll, I'll stay here and read... this." He lifts the Dragonstone and presses it to his chest, defensive.</p><p>"I'll get going, then." </p><p>But Sanguinius doesn't get the chance. As soon as he finishes the sentence, the so-called elfish woman guarding the Jarl barrels into the room.</p><p>"Farengar!", she shouts. "Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby. You—" she glances at Sanguinius for a moment, then looks away, uncomfortable. "You... should come, too."</p><p>Sanguinius inhales sharply. So the dragon hasn't skipped over Whiterun.</p><p>"A— a dragon," Farengar babbles. "How exciting! How, uh— where is it, what is it doing?" He looks emphatically away from Sanguinius, who sighs. </p><p>"I'll be going, if nobody minds," he says, and leaves to go see the Jarl.</p><p>When he finds him, Balgruuf is talking to a man in armor. He's claiming he came from some watchtower or other; Sanguinius learns the elfish woman's name is Irileth. As soon as Balgruuf turns to him, Sanguinius tells him,</p><p>"I'll go, don't worry." </p><p>Balgruuf sighs with relief. "Just follow Irileth, she'll show you to the watchtower."</p><p>Sanguinius nods sharply and leaves his presence, leaving Balgruuf hesitant and warm-faced.</p><p>When Sanguinius leaves Dragonsreach, he immediately bumps into Ralof. </p><p>"What's happening?", the nord asks him, face in chiaroscuro half-illumination by the torches. Smoke beyond the pillars of Dragonsreach's bridge, and city walls, and beyond that the stars.</p><p>"The dragon's landed nearby."</p><p>"The one we saw earlier?"</p><p>"Unsure, but it's likely. Do you know where the western watchtower is?"</p><p>"I have an idea, but it's not exact. I've never been."</p><p>"Good enough. Should it just be west of Whiterun?"</p><p>"Northwest." Ralof gestures to the distance, and Sanguinius turns around.</p><p>"Go with Irileth," Sanguinius decides. "Tell them I sent you, I'm heading up ahead."</p><p>Ralof sighs. "You don't understand I'm a wanted man, do you."</p><p>"I do, but it'll be fine. Trust me." And before Ralof can reply, Sanguinius has jumped off the bridge and set off flying northwest, going up higher than Ralof's ever seen him go before.</p><p>"<em>Talos's beard</em>," Ralof swears. He hurries to Irileth, to hopefully try and explain all of this.</p><p>Meanwhile, while flying over the vast plains, Sanguinius doesn't take long to spot the tower. It's still on fire, with charred corpses everywhere pinned under smoking debris; the orange delineates broken stone against the dark. He lands some distance away and rushes to see if anyone's been left alive; lifts a few pieces of debris from some moribund guards, stays by them as they die. Their eyes widen when they see him, and Sanguinius wonders what they're thinking. </p><p>When he hears Irileth's men arrive, he turns to face them, the fire raging behind him and a dying man resting on his lap. Destruction surrounds him.</p><p>"Shor's Bones," one whispers. "Did it kill them all?"</p><p>Before Sanguinius can speak, a guard stumbles out of the tower, heavily injured. </p><p>"No! Get back!" he shouts. "It's still here somewhere!"</p><p>He continues talking, but Sanguinius isn't paying attention to him. He places the corpse on the floor gently and stands up, takes off with a thunderous batting of wings, high into the air. </p><p>The dragon approaches again, and Sanguinius sees it clearly, now, from above. It's a greenish-gray, unlike the other dragon. The dragon roars, and Sanguinius snarls, howls in response, and dives at it.</p><p>It approaches him at first, shouting strange things. Sanguinius barely recognizes them as nonsensical but words, articulated. Strange. The dragon shouts something—</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>YOL
TOOR
SHUL!</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>—and a tongue of fire envelops Sanguinius's body, scorching his skin and charring his clothes. Still diving forward, he turns away from the dragon and down, passing under it; then the angel weaves back up and over the dragon, elbow held out, and lets himself fall. </p><p>The dragon doesn't turn in time. Sanguinius lands on the dragon. His elbow barely dents the hard scales.  He quickly scrambles to hold on to the creature as it twists and turns through the air, trying his damned best to buck him off; he won't let it. Sanguinius holds onto it, digging his fingers into the space between scales, and he pushes himself forward until he reaches the creature's neck. He swivels, puts his legs on each side of its neck and holds onto its horns for dear life, squeezing and twisting its huge head and neck the best he can. To Sanguinius's credit, it does actually turn, and he's successful, at least, in avoiding its maws; in a desperate attempt to get him off its back, the dragon lets itself fall to the ground.</p><p>Guards swarm around the dragon, and it shouts again. Sanguinius pulls its head back violently. It spills fire and ice in an arc, high above the guards' heads. The guards keep shooting arrows at the dragon, occasionally missing and having them bounce off Sanguinius's skin; Sanguinius catches an arrow in midair. He wrestles with the dragon, pulling its head around to reach at one of its eyes. He manages to get a clear shot in with the arrow in its left eye, and the dragon starts crying out and whimpering in babbled speech, half intelligible. Sanguinius doesn't hear it. </p><p>The dragon tries to take off. It manages to trample over some guards, but it suddenly howls in pain. Sanguinius looks down, still wrestling to snap its neck, and finds Ralof stabbed through and ripped up a great deal of the soft tissue on its wings. Sanguinius grins savagely at Ralof. Digs in with his fingers, into the dragon's jaw. He pulls, and then, finally, with an odious crackle, the dragon's neck cedes. Enough breath is left in the beast to shout one last thing, though:</p><p>"<strong>DOVAHKIIN?!</strong> <em>NO!</em>"</p><p>Its head falls to the floor with a noise like thunder, and Sanguinius slides off its neck gracefully, to stand on the ground. The charred tatters of his clothes hang off his muscular frame, his angelic wings in full display, his hair mussed up and sweaty from the fight, golden framing his face like a halo; there's an expression of raw, savage fun slowly dissipating from his face. And before the crowd's very eyes, the dragon's skin bursts and goes up in flames, seemingly out of nowhere, and it illuminates Sanguinius like a holy aura, and the fire seems to briefly consume him, dance around his body before surrendering itself to him. And one word is left in everyone's mouth, but only Ralof can say it, in an awestruck gasp:</p><p>"Dragonborn."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey hey hey! so! what did you think? </p><p>briefly explaining the lore reference: quote UESP, "The et'Ada are the 'original spirits', a race of divine beings resulting from the interplay of Anu and Padomay, including: The Aedra[...], [t]he Daedric Princes[...] [and the] Magna Ge." and then again quote UESP, the Ada are "divine spirits [...] such as Morihaus and Pelinal Whitestrake, [who] are descended from the et'Ada." :3c</p><p>(sidenote, but i'd feel amiss if i didn't point this out: the guy who wrote what we canonically know about the AFAIK only known Ada is a complete fucking dipshit. i can link a laundry list of shitty things he's done if anyone wants but trust me he's the worst. yeah thats all lol) (i say this bc i'm a huge fan of those characters and ive posted fic of them before even and i dont want anyone to think i agree with their dipshit original writer on anything except that pelinal whitestrake was gay and unhinged)</p><p>with all of that said and clarified, cya in the next chapter!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey everyone! so, before you read this chapter, i'd like to say something very serious. </p><p>recently, it has come to my attention that ao3 allows written and illustrated porn of real life minors, including porn that features non-consensual scenarios, in its website, and not out of ignorance but out of a deliberate desire to include and defend those who create and share said content. this is not a decision i agree with, for obvious reasons. thusly, i've decided to begin backing up and posting my fanfiction onto other websites as well.</p><p>so if you want to find my fics elsewhere, search no further than <a href="https://luwupercal.tumblr.com/tagged/words">my tumblr</a> (where i've just posted a new fic featuring fulgrim that i won't be posting to other sites for a good while), or if you want a site specifically dedicated to posting fanfiction, i have made both <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/u/14519548/">fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://fanfiction.online/@lundiivith">fanfiction.online</a> accounts, though that last one's kind of virtually unusable, as i literally just discovered trying to post this chapter, so unfortunately i might have to delete that.</p><p>i agree that an archive for internet fanfiction is a good thing, but i disagree that these kinds of things should be archived. i don't think this is simply an issue of "if you don't like it, look away"; i think this is outright dangerous, and incites violence. if you disagree, you're welcome to not read my own fanfiction, and seek other sources of entertainment during the hellish year that 2020 has been. after all, you know what they say: don't like it, don't read.</p><p>on a less-serious sidenote, this chapter's very long. 6k+ words, in fact! i wasn't expecting it to be this long when i started it, and i certainly don't believe it'll be common for chapters to go over 4.5k words in the future. it just wasn't getting anywhere until the last while, though. hopefully that's alright! also, i'm no expert on sanguinius, so this chapter was a struggle, but i hope it's in-character enough for you to enjoy it hahahah.</p><p>that's all. have a safe day, everyone!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sanguinius frowns, confused. "Dragonborn?"</p><p>His voice breaks the spell the guards had found themselves under. They disperse, whispering among themselves. Ralof hesitantly moves closer to the dragon skeleton, as Sanguinius steps away from its bones. A few last pieces of his charred clothes fall off him, and Ralof feels his face begin to heat up, but he can't stop thinking of something else.</p><p>"Dragonborn," he repeats, nodding. "In the very oldest tales, back when there still were dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power." He looks at Sanguinius with wide eyes. "That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?"</p><p>"I..." Sanguinius's face is carefully empty. "I've never done that before, to be truthful."</p><p>"Neither has anyone I've ever seen," Ralof replies. "You realize this is a miracle? Where did you even come from, that you can do this?" But when Ralof looks back at Sanguinius, he doesn't look like himself. He doesn't look like a man with wings, nor does he look like a hero. He looks... he reminds Ralof of the view from the top of a mountain, all jagged edges and snow, but not quite. Maybe of the ash that sweeps in from the east, from Morrowind. But... not quite either.</p><p>The comparison Ralof is looking for, when he looks at Sanguinius, is the hypnotizingly slow slide of liquid flame down the side of a volcano, piercing red eyes homing on nothing, burning. Because Sanguinius, against all evidence, for the first time since he confronted his traitorous brother, is scared.</p><p>"Sanguinius?" Ralof asks, and it almost snaps Sanguinius out of his reverie. He glances at Ralof, but there's still cobwebs in his eyes.</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>Ralof deliberates for a moment on what to ask and then settles on, "Is everything alright?"</p><p>"Yes," Sanguinius tells him. "I'm alright. It's— that probably shouldn't happen again," he adds. Ralof visibly winces. "What?"</p><p>"Well, you're Dragonborn, and you appeared here at the same time the dragons did. I'm not an expert, but— the gods must've sent you."</p><p>Sanguinius takes in that reply and processes it in (what to Ralof is) a millisecond. "...By the <em>gods</em>," he says. "<em>Sent</em>."</p><p>"Yes— wait, Sanguinius— Sanguinius!"</p><p>Sanguinius has stepped away from Ralof, about to set off flying, when Ralof catches up to him.</p><p>"<em>What</em>," Sanguinius says, flat. A chill runs down Ralof's spine. The comparison to jagged stone and ice seems more fitting now.</p><p>Ralof still pushes through and holds onto Sanguinius's arm. The Primarch allows it, knowing he could snap any Ralof's bones with no effort. "Sanguinius," Ralof repeats. "If you're really Dragonborn, we'll need you. No one here knows how to deal with dragons, but with you— we should be able to figure it out. I know you've got hangups with the gods, and I probably can't even begin to understand them—"</p><p>"No," Sanguinius says, impatient. "You can't."</p><p>"—but you're not here for no reason. Sanguinius, please listen. Does it matter that much to you? You can fly, you can kill men in seconds, why are you surprised you c—"</p><p>"The only divine power I ever met <em>killed me</em>, Ralof," Sanguinius tells him, icy. Ralof looks at him, taken aback. "<em>Forgive me</em> if I don't embrace their manipulations."</p><p>But there's something rubbing him the wrong way. The voice, from the cavern yesterday... Sanguinius doesn't trust it, but he remembers its words. <em>Not as expected</em>. Maybe, just maybe, this could all be an accident?</p><p>As he's hesitating, a few words thunder high.</p><p><strong>DOV</strong><br/>
AH<br/>
KIIN! </p><p>Sanguinius turns around to where it's coming from, and finds nothing; the words reverberate through the air like artillery, distant. The thunderous voice wakes Ralof from his surprise. He touches Sanguinius's arm again, and says, "I'm sorry."</p><p>"For what?" Sanguinius is distracted. "What was that?"</p><p>"I don't know," Ralof admits, "but I'm sure Jarl Balgruuf will, and he needs to know we killed the dragon. We really should tell him."</p><p>"Oh. You're right," Sanguinius replies, a little embarrassed, “we should.” He'd forgotten.</p><p>Sanguinius begins fixing his borrowed tablecloth-cloak into something that may protect his modesty. Ralof unbuckles his belt and passes it over to Sanguinius, who uses it to hold up his improvised tunic, and shakes off the last ashes of his burnt rags. They stand a moment in silence, and then Sanguinius picks Ralof up and sets off flying back to Whiterun.</p><p>The flight is quiet. Sanguinius doesn't even do a barrel roll. They land at the top of the stairs to Dragonsreach and Sanguinius drops Ralof off there, before returning to Balgruuf.</p><p>When Sanguinius finds him, Balgruuf is damn near biting his nails, obvious worry on his face.</p><p>"You return," Balgruuf says, increasingly comfortable with Sanguinius's aura. "We've heard the summons. Is the dragon dead?"</p><p>"Yes. It destroyed the watchtower, but didn't live for long afterwards."</p><p>Balgruuf nods. "But that can't be it," he guesses.</p><p>"...What is," Sanguinius asks, "a <em>Dragonborn</em>?"</p><p>Balgruuf inhales sharply. "So it's true," he says. "The Greybeards really were summoning you."</p><p>Sanguinius goes stone cold like before. "I am no Dragonborn," he says. "I don't know what happened back there, with the creature's soul, but I am not— I am a Primarch, not some... whatever that was."</p><p>Balgruuf raises his eyebrows. "If you're confused," he says, "you might want to seek the Graybeards' guidance. After all, they've summoned you."</p><p>"The Greybeards?" Sanguinius tilts his head, puzzled.</p><p>"Masters of the Way of the Voice. They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."</p><p>"The Voice? Is that the... glowing thing?"</p><p>"The Voice is a type of magic," Balgruuf explains, infinitely patient with this clueless, beautiful giant. "The myths say the Dragonborn is uniquely gifted in the Voice — the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, the Graybeards can teach you how to use your gift."</p><p>"...I see," Sanguinius says, even though he really doesn't. "Then I'll have to ask these Greybeards if I want to know more. Where is this, Throat of the World?"</p><p>"East, and a bit to the South. It's the tallest mountain in Skyrim. You might be needing a guide, though," Balgruuf adds, "and that brings me to something else. You've done a great deed for me and my city, and by my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant. I assign you Lydia as your personal housecarl, and this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office. I'll also notify my guards of your new title—"</p><p>"Sincerely, Jarl," Sanguinius tells him flatly, "I would appreciate it more if you gifted me some armor. Or even some clothes."</p><p>Balgruuf looks at him up and down and nods slowly. "A good idea, too. I'll put in word with Eorlund Gray-Mane to make you something; if you swing by, Lydia can tell him and he can measure you. I'll call her up."</p><p>Sanguinius crosses his arms. "So if that'll be all..."</p><p>"For now, yes." Balgruuf looks at Sanguinius's face and quickly looks away, oddly embarrassed. "But I have a feeling I'll see you again." He claps his hands. "Back to business, Proventus—"</p><p>Sanguinius turns away and walks down the steps towards the doors.</p><p>As he's walking to the door, he feels something tug on his wing; he turns around. In front of him appears a wildly starstruck woman, with short brown hair, dressed in steel armor.</p><p>"<em>Uhhhhh</em>," she says, unable to take her eyes off him.</p><p>"...Hello," Sanguinius says. "Who are you?"</p><p>"Uh— I'm Lydia," she blurts out. "The Jarl has appointed me to be your housecarl. It's— it's an honor to serve you, my thane."</p><p>Sanguinius flicks his wing away from Lydia's grasp. "Your... thane?"</p><p>"The Jarl has recognised you as a person of great importance in the hold. A hero. The title of Thane is— it's an honor, a gift for your service." Lydia clasps her hands behind her back then, a little ashamed.</p><p>Sanguinius looks at her and nods. "An equerry," he says.</p><p>"A housecarl," Lydia gently corrects. "Or— or an equerry, if that's what you'd rather call it, my thane."</p><p>Sanguinius shrugs. "I knew your position as <em>equerry</em>, though I suspect there's some difference. The Jarl said you had orders for armor my size, to pass onto an... Earland Grey-Mane?"</p><p>Lydia nods. "Eorlund Gray-Mane, my thane. And the Jarl has given me some money, for if you need a place to stay while he crafts it. He's— he's the finest smith in Skyrim, I'm sure he'll have it done in no time," she adds.</p><p>Sanguinius smiles peacefully, mentally mourning his old power armor. "I'm sure it will be. I'll be traveling soon, though," he adds, "as soon as I can acquire new clothing. I've been summoned, you know," and there's a hint of humor in his voice.</p><p>Lydia nods solemnly. "I'm right behind you," she promises. "Lead the way."</p><p>Sanguinius finds Ralof sitting at a bench in the Cloud District, under the great tree. Ralof looks up to him as the primarch's silhouette blocks out the twin moons' light, and then he sees Lydia.</p><p>"Ralof, this is Lydia," Sanguinius introduces her. "She's to be my equerry, it seems. Lydia, this is Ralof. He's been travelling with me."</p><p>"A pleasure to meet you," Lydia tells him.</p><p>Ralof nods at her. "Likewise. Where are we going next?", he then asks Sanguinius.</p><p>"The Jarl will be commissioning a local smith to create armor for me, and I'm in need of clothes," Sanguinius tells him. "As soon as I have something to wear, we'll be going to the Throat of the World. They may have answers."</p><p>"Oh," Ralof says, a little surprised. "I've... always wanted to go. Not how I expected it to happen, though." He fiddles nervously with his hands. “Anything else?”</p><p>“The Jarl will apparently be commissioning custom-sized armor for me,” Sanguinius notes. “Tomorrow they’ll have to measure me. I believe we should find a room for the night first, though, so you two can rest," he adds.</p><p>"There's an inn <em>just </em>down these stairs, my thane," Lydia points out. Sanguinius smiles and thanks her, and she goes a bright, comical pink.</p><p>They head towards the inn and let Lydia knock on the door. The scene inside, a previously-bustling early morning, shudders to a stop when Sanguinius walks in, bent down at the shoulders. Out of the two women inside, the older-looking one freezes and looks wide-eyed at the giant; the younger-looking one drops her broom. Sanguinius doesn't deign them with more than a smile, simply waiting for Lydia to complete a transaction for two nights' ownership of a room with two beds. The younger woman leads them to the room and Sanguinius sits down on the room's floor again, and as Ralof falls on the mattress, he starts picking through his wings' feathers to make sure he takes out any grime left over from the past while.</p><p>As he does so, he feels a stare digging into him. He doesn't look up or say anything; he doesn't need to.</p><p>"My thane?"</p><p>"Yes?" Sanguinius continues finger-combing through his wings.</p><p>"...Uhhh..." Lydia flushes a little, digs her nails into her palms. "Um—"</p><p>"There's no polite way to ask it, is there?" Sanguinius's resigned words shut Lydia up.</p><p>"...Yes," she admits. "I have... a lot of questions."</p><p>Sanguinius nods. "Well," he begins, "I am Sanguinius, Primarch of the Ninth Legion, the Blood Angels, and son of the Emperor of Mankind. Though I figure that doesn't mean much to you."</p><p>Lydia laughs just a little bit. "It... doesn't."</p><p>"It didn't seem to mean much for Ralof or your Jarl, either," Sanguinius muses. "I thought we'd already reached every major human settlement in this galaxy, but it doesn't look like it." <em>If I'm even in the same galaxy</em>, he thinks. It's been a disorienting past couple of days.</p><p>"...the galaxy," Lydia repeats, unsure. (<em>What is a galaxy?,</em> she wonders. Sounds like wizard things. She never got the hang of magic).</p><p>Sanguinius nods.</p><p>"But, uh. <em>What </em>are you?" she asks, point blank.</p><p>"I already told you," Sanguinius answers, a little amused. "I am a Primarch. The Emperor— not your Emperor, another one," he clarifies, "—the Emperor of Mankind, my father, created me to be a general to my sons, stronger, faster and bigger than baseline humans like you." He keeps going through his feathers, scraping off some dried blood from its pinions.</p><p>"Oh." Lydia thinks for a moment. "Why the wings?"</p><p>Sanguinius snorts. "I don't actually know."</p><p>Lydia doesn't know what to make of that answer, so she just says, "I should go... tell Eorlund Gray-Mane about your armor, my Thane."</p><p>"You're dismissed," Sanguinius tells her, and she leaves. Sanguinius continues picking through his wings, cleaning them out. He traces his hand over a rapidly-healing wound under the feathers and feels a strange bump, so he reopens it with a scratch of his nail. And he fishes out— a single bullet.</p><p>Sanguinius holds the blood-stained bullet and suddenly only feels cold. It matches the traitor Warmaster's firearm.</p><p>It's a stark reminder of what brought him here, and of what he's left behind. Sanguinius holds the bullet up to the light and watches its half-squished shape glint dully under the candlelight. He considers it.</p><p>He puts the bullet on the floor and rips a long and thin strip of cloth off what he's wearing right now; he ties the bullet's midsection to the cloth. Sanguinius takes a moment to admire his handiwork. Then he tilts his head to the side, brushing his long hair away from his back. Sanguinius ties the strip with the bullet-pendant to the back of his neck with a little bow, then lets his hair cover it again. He settles back against the wall and fiddles with his new necklace.</p><p>A reminder. A reminder, for whenever it all feels like a dream. A piece of reality.</p><p>When Ralof wakes up a few hours later, Sanguinius has stolen the blankets off the other bed and has made a nest for himself on the floor, and he's fast asleep, his wings curled protectively around him.</p><p>Ralof looks at Sanguinius, breathlessly quiet. He doesn't dare disturb the primarch, so he makes sure to be quiet when he steps out of bed; the creak the wooden floor makes when Ralof stands on it still wakes Sanguinius up, and he looks at Ralof with half-lidded eyes.</p><p>Ralof sits back down in bed.</p><p>"Sanguinius," he begins, "are you alright?"</p><p>"...I'm fine."</p><p>"I'm serious." There's bustle coming from below, where the inn's patrons are rising for breakfast. "You said you died? The gods betrayed you, your siblings betrayed you? What happened, Sanguinius?"</p><p>Sanguinius sighs. "...It's a long story."</p><p>"We've got all day."</p><p>Sanguinius is a little surprised. After a moment, he looks down, at his hands. "I did not wake up here from restful sleep. I was— My brother, Horus, he..."</p><p>"He killed you." It's not a question.</p><p>"He ran me through with his power-claw right through two lungs and a heart." His voice is quiet. He remembers struggling to breathe on the obsidian floor, feeling a sharp pain on his temples, a burning heart attack.</p><p>Ralof steps off the bed and kneels before Sanguinius.</p><p>"...I know how bitter betrayal tastes," he says. Sanguinius doesn't ask further, doesn’t pry, unlike certain people; when he thinks that, his thoughts gain a hint of annoyance.</p><p>"Lydia will be returning soon," Sanguinius says, looking at the door. Ralof just looks at him and sits on the floor.</p><p>"...Was it too much of me to ask?"</p><p>"Yes." But as soon as the word goes through his lips, Sanguinius suddenly isn't sure. He drums his fingers against his own leg.</p><p>"I'm sorry."</p><p>"Don't be. You were curious."</p><p>"Still—"</p><p>"Don't." Sanguinius puts a hint of command in his voice, and Ralof shuts up quick. There's an awkward silence.</p><p>The noise from below becomes louder. Ralof looks away from Sanguinius; Sanguinius looks away from Ralof.</p><p>"...Where does Grey-Mane work?"</p><p>"The Skyforge is behind Jorrvaskr, the Companions' base of operations," Ralof begins, hesitant. "It's the building shaped like an upside-down boat. But your housecarl will probably be at the Gray-Manes' shop, near the gates."</p><p>"I see," Sanguinius says, and Ralof watches as he stands up. "Will you be coming?"</p><p>"Why wouldn't I be? ...Do you want me to?"</p><p>Sanguinius sighs. "I don't mind either way." When Ralof doesn't reply, Sanguinius goes back downstairs.</p><p>He walks down the stairs, and one by one the inn guests shut up and look at him with wide eyes. A plate falls to the floor with a crash. The person who dropped it is too mesmerized to pick it up. Sanguinius ignores them, ducking his head under the doorframe, and stepping outside.</p><p>It's a cloudy day. The air is humid and windy; it threatens rain. There are a few guards on the street who see him and stand at attention; word must've gotten around. Sanguinius heads towards the gates and to the left, to what seems like a blacksmith's shop; Lydia isn't here. He misses two hooded men by the gates who elbow each other, too in awe to go up to him and talk. A woman is sharpening a dagger outside. Sanguinius ignores her and opens the door to the shop, ducking his head under as he steps through.</p><p>Inside, there are weapons and armor strewn all around. At the counter there is Lydia, talking to a man, and as she hears the little bell ring she turns around and sees Sanguinius by the entrance.</p><p>"My thane," she says. "Just in time— they've asked to take your measurements." She's only a little red; it's progress. Sanguinius nods.</p><p>"Where should I head for that...?" he wonders out loud. The man behind the counter is pale, but the words spur him into action.</p><p>"I'll bring the measuring tape if you'll give me a moment," he says, and he disappears behind a door; Sanguinius waits after him.</p><p>"My thane?"</p><p>"Yes, Lydia?" Sanguinius is a bit distracted, thinking of earlier.</p><p>"You said we're going to the Throat of the World."</p><p>"That's right."</p><p>"...So is it true, then?" Lydia presses her shield against her. "You're the Dragonborn?"</p><p>Sanguinius... grimaces.</p><p>"It's complicated," he settles on.</p><p>"Oh." Lydia brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, wide-eyed. There’s a brief silence before the man returns.</p><p>Sanguinius is shooed by the store-owner away from his housecarl, to a separate part of the room. An old man walks through the door, demanding to know what's taking him away from his forge; he shuts up when he sees Sanguinius.</p><p>The Primarch then spends the next bit being measured and sworn at and apologized to and sworn around. He doesn't say much throughout. Eorlund leaves and returns with samples of metal, a steel that looks to be of excellent quality by Sanguinius's (admittedly not-as-big-an-expert-as-he-could-be) eyes, and the improvised tunic finds itself in danger of falling off him several times. Lydia leaves the building the first time this happens, heralded by the doorbell's ring.</p><p>Sanguinius chimes into the conversation occasionally, when they ask him for background details, but he's sparse. He offers tips when they theorize on how to leave space for his wings, indicating they can squeeze through spaces that seem smallish, though he <em>did </em>have to have his previous armor placed onto him rather than him entering it, now that you mention it, and the conversation derails into Sanguinius trying to explain several features he enjoyed from his previous armor that could be salvaged despite the technological difference.</p><p>After a few close calls with the tunic, Eorlund calls a time out, and sends the other man (whom Sanguinius has learnt is his son-in-law) to the city’s general goods store. He returns with several yards of fabric, and after a brief lunch break for the hardworking family, Sanguinius sheepishly becomes part of the effort to turn that cloth into clothes that fit him.</p><p>Once everything is said and done, though, he finds himself with two changes of hastily-sewn clothes, rather loose but comfortable, and more incoming — plus plans for future armor being drafted up at the workplace Eorlund calls the Skyforge.</p><p>It's well into the afternoon when he and Lydia emerge from the shop, and Sanguinius is feeling rather wilted. They return to the inn, and there, they find Ralof — who pleasantly surprises them, having apparently gone out and bought supplies for their trip.</p><p>"We should stick to the roads," he says, once they're all back in the room, "and then it shouldn't take too long, but it's still going to take us a while."</p><p>Sanguinius nods. "Do we have a map?"</p><p>"Here," and Ralof hands Sanguinius a rolled up piece of paper. Sanguinius unrolls it and finds a sizable land depicted before him, dotted with abundant mountain ranges and with province borders clarified in dashed lines. The capitals of the provinces stand out against the warm background colours, each pinpointed out with a different symbol. There's a larger mountain range some distance away from Whiterun, and on the other side is a small town, whose name, as declared by the map, is Ivarstead. Ralof leans in to see how Sanguinius is holding the map and presses his index finger against the top of the mountain; Lydia mirrors his posture, minus the accusation.</p><p>"Here," Ralof says, "is the monastery of High Hrothgar, on the Throat of the World." (At least, that was its name, according to the books he’d browsed at Belethor's earlier).</p><p>"Interesting name for a mountain," Sanguinius muses. "Will we go through here..." and he traces a path that goes north of the mountain, almost fish hook-shaped, "or here?", and he traces a shorter route through a mountain range, passing south by Helgen.</p><p>Lydia interjects with, "Well, the second one would be harder."</p><p>"There's no roads there," Ralof agrees. "We'll have to go through Morthal."</p><p>"But I could carry you," Sanguinius mentions. "It'd be a bit more difficult than just carrying Ralof, but I could..."</p><p>Lydia flushes bright red at his words, and then glances at Ralof with her eyebrows raised. Ralof presses his lips together in an awkward rictus. What do you want me to say?</p><p>"...We could," Ralof relents, "but I don't want to tire you out. We'll return through Morthal."</p><p>Sanguinius smiles. "If that's settled, then. I'll go get dinner." He rolls the map up once more and hands it to Ralof.</p><p>As he leaves, he can overhear the high-pitched squeals and rapid-fire embarrassed deflection of Lydia peppering Ralof with questions all about the Sanguinius-carrying-him Thing. He laughs a little to himself and walks down the stairs and to the main room of the inn.</p><p>Sanguinius sits at a table, awkwardly angling the chair away from it so his legs aren't trapped underneath, and waits. He doesn't pay much mind to the glances from all over the room, be it from the blonde man strumming something on a lyre or from the heavily armored elf-woman. After a bit, the younger of the two women that work at the inn approaches him shyly.</p><p>"G-good, um. Good evening," she says. "I'm Saadia. Is— is there anything we, um, we can do for you?"</p><p>Sanguinius, leaning his elbow against the table, looks down at her without rancor. "What's for dinner?"</p><p>"Uh," Saadia says. "Tonight we've made potato soup but we can make anything else if you'd rather." She says it all in one breath, determined not to stutter.</p><p>"I'll have that, then," Sanguinius says. He's survived on worse before. It'll be fine, really, it will. Saadia nods and leaves to the counter, and conversation resumes among the tavern-goers, though significantly quieter. The peace doesn't last long; Sanguinius hears footsteps and turns around to see Lydia and Ralof walking down the stairs. He sighs softly.</p><p>"So," he says, "you're all done gossipping?"</p><p>"We weren't gossipping," Ralof scoffs, but Lydia elbows him; she can't lie to her thane that brazenly, it's obvious. Sanguinius presses a hand to his mouth, hiding an amused smile. "Alright," Ralof admits, "maybe we were gossipping a little."</p><p>"I'll let it slide this time," Sanguinius warns, only half-joking. Lydia's already made herself comfortable at the table, and Ralof pulls out a chair to sit in himself. Sanguinius catches Saadia looking at them and turning to inform the woman behind the counter. It isn't long until there's three steaming bowls of soup in front of them, and wine and ale aplenty.</p><p>Over dinner, Lydia and Ralof begin discussing the man howling out his praises for some god or other, with Ralof careful not to show his truer, bluer colours. Sanguinius is quiet, but there must be something in his face betraying his discomfort, because his companions take one good look at him and change the topic pretty bluntly. He doesn't join in though, still thinking about the gods in this far-flung planet — or, really, far-flung whatever-it-is. His gut instinct about this place isn't good, but he knows he'll return home as soon as he figures out how, and where he is. He has to. ...He has to.</p><p>Dinner passes by fast, and so does the night. Lydia offers the bed she earlier claimed to her thane, but Sanguinius rejects it, citing his size and a tendency to fall off beds not made for people with wings; he does accept her beddings, though. Soon, it's the next morning, and Lydia wakes up to find Sanguinius already awake and stretching. He's wearing one of the changes of clothing made for him yesterday, a short dark-red sleeveless robe and some pants hastily patchworked from two or three different pairs.</p><p>"Good morning, my thane," she says sleepily.</p><p>"Good morning, Lydia," Sanguinius responds. "I'm thinking of going for a walk around the city," he adds, "if you'll accompany me?"</p><p>Lydia sits up with extreme hurry. "Of course, my thane," she says. Sanguinius laughs at her surprised earnestness; Lydia asks him to turn around as she changes and he obliges, still amused. Soon, she's all dressed and standing up, finger-combing her hair.</p><p>They both head downstairs and leave the inn, early enough that it's empty, and before Sanguinius knows it, they're outside, watching the sun rise on a bright pink sky. Lydia follows after her thane as he strolls up the stairs, glancing around at the plaza; he takes a seat under the great big tree in its middle, and she stands by him, arms crossed over her chest. Sanguinius drums his fingers against the bench's wood. It's quiet for a moment, only interrupted by the birds' earliest song.</p><p>"...I miss my sons," Sanguinius says suddenly, unprompted.</p><p>Lydia's eyes go wide. "You're a father?"</p><p>"Of a sort," Sanguinius admits. "My men, my soldiers were like my sons. By adoption," he adds, sensing her mild alarm. "But I miss them all the same."</p><p>"Huh. ...If you'll forgive me for being curious," Lydia says, "what is your family like?"</p><p>The question floors Sanguinius. He deliberates over an answer for a moment. "...My father is a very powerful man," he finally settles on, "and I have many brothers. Seven I still speak to. One dead, two gone." Ralof will eventually let slip the existence of his traitor brothers, but Sanguinius doesn't want to give his two companions such topics for them to gossip over. "What about yours?" he adds, not wanting to dwell on it further. The uncomfortable burn of grief at his brothers' fall is rearing its ugly head up inside him, and he'd really rather not.</p><p>Lydia sighs. "A half-orphaned bastard daughter, raised as a foster child on the Jarl's court. To be the next steward or something, maybe. Maybe a servant. There's not much else to say."</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>"...Was that too much, my thane?" Lydis suddenly worries.</p><p>"No, no— it's fine," Sanguinius reassures her. "Just wasn't expecting it." He hadn't been particularly expecting anything, but it was still surprising. "I'm assuming the still-alive parent's the one who won't claim you," he adds, a little bitter. He doesn't like those sorts of people.</p><p>"We've only rarely spoken," Lydis confirms. "I didn't learn he was my father until I was an adult. If I was recognized," she sardonically adds, "I would be in the line of succession for Whiterun."</p><p>Sanguinius puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it gently. "I'm sure you'd make a fine ruler," he tells her.</p><p>Lydis flushes, suddenly hyper-aware of Sanguinius's presence. "Th-than— thank you, my thane," she stutters out.</p><p>Sanguinius just smiles and lets go of her shoulder. "...It's a strange planet, this one," he says. "On Baal, unwanted children are few and far between, and raising children is done communally. Though Terra has bastards too... But this planet's unlike Terra, or unlike any other planet I've been to," he adds. "Even flying in it feels different."</p><p>"Wait—" Lydia clasps her hands, looks at him in awe. "So it's true that you flew here? With Ralof?"</p><p>"It is," Sanguinius confirms with a smile. The light of early morning tints his golden hair pink. He raises his eyebrows mischievously. "Would you like a demonstration?"</p><p>Lydis stiffens, visibly flatlines. "...Y-yes?" she says, voice creaky with surprise. "I'd lo— yes, please!"</p><p>Sanguinius stands, and Lydia takes a step back to let him. "All right," the primarch says, "if I carry people, I usually do it in my arms. It's dangerous to be on my back, or hanging off anywhere else. So I'll have to pick you up."</p><p>Lydia, eyes wide, nods rapturously.</p><p>"Then up we go," Sanguinius says and sweeps her into his arms. Lydia goes bright red as Sanguinius picks her up; she hides her face in his hair, against his shoulder, and he snorts. "Prepare for liftoff," he jokes, and he takes off with a jump.</p><p>Lydis opens her eyes only moments later to see Whiterun the size of a plate, way below them. She gasps.</p><p>"Impressive, isn't it?" Sanguinius tells her, amused.</p><p>"No shit," she mutters out, and then buries her face in Sanguinius's shoulder again as he laughs.</p><p>"I've gotten that before, don't worry," Sanguinius tells her, amused. "We'll do just one spin and come back down. Ralof's quite probably waking up by now," he adds. Lydia hums in agreement.</p><p>Sanguinius feels more than sees her shift, looking around at the sky all around her. He feels her hands gripping tightly onto his clothes. Lydia peeks out down, watching Whiterun become smaller and smaller.</p><p>"Like the birds," she blurts out, unable to articulate further.</p><p>"Just like them," Sanguinius confirms. He grips her tighter. "Hold on tight," he adds, and suddenly they're spinning downwards. Lydia screams a little.</p><p>They rise some distance away from the tops of the buildings, and Lydia laughs from sheer nervousness.</p><p>"That—" she gasps, "that really was something," and she feels Sanguinius's ribs shake as he laughs.</p><p>"People have threatened to throw up on me," Sanguinius says, amused.</p><p>"Oh, I'm not ruling that out," Lydia tells him.</p><p>"If you really have to chuck, do it after we land," Sanguinius replies, amused. "Speaking of— I'll be descensing now."</p><p>Lydia nods and closes her eyes. Wind runs through her hair, messing it up in every direction. She holds on tight as Sanguinius lands. She only opens her eyes as Sanguinius puts her down; she takes several shaky steps away from him and looks at her thane with renewed admiration in her eyes.</p><p>"That was. That was," she begins, "that was incredible."</p><p>Sanguinius brushes his hair back over his shoulder, smiling. "I'm glad you had fun," he tells her.</p><p>"I had a lot more emotions than fun, trust me. My thane," she quickly adds to the sentence.</p><p>"You get used to flying."</p><p>"Really?" Lydia frowns at him.</p><p>"No, not at all, it's terrific every time," he clarifies, "but you <em>do </em>lose the fear. Or maybe I just never developed it." Now that he thinks about it, it's quite likely he never did. Ever since his wings became strong enough to support his weight, he's been flying. He doesn't remember a time where the sky wasn't reachable anymore.</p><p>Sanguinius notices a man on the corner of his sight. He's setting something up by a statue near the tree, wearing a robe and a hood. He recalls this man; he'd been hollering earlier, something about someone named Talos. Sanguinius and Lydia aren't silent for long when the man begins hollering once again:</p><p>"Talos the mighty!" the man bellows out. "Talos the unerring! Talos the unassailable! To you we give praise!"</p><p>"Well," Sanguinius says, over the man's obnoxious shouts. "Back to the tavern, shall we?"</p><p>"I am behind you, my thane," Lydia says.</p><p>But as they leave, Sanguinius overhears something from the man...</p><p>"We are the children of man! Talos is the true god of man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit!"</p><p>...and is suddenly, unpleasantly reminded of a rumour that reached him, a long time ago, about one of his brothers.</p><p>Elsewhere, it's quiet, and Ralof wakes up only to see the room empty. He gets dressed and tiptoes downstairs, where he pays for breakfast; after a few minutes, Lydia and Sanguinius return, Lydia's face windy-red. Sanguinius is staring at the ground.</p><p>"Where've you two gone?"</p><p>"For a flight," Lydia tells him, very proudly.</p><p>"Poor you," Ralof tells her. "...Can you still fly us to Helgen, though?" and he asks this to Sanguinius, who nods.</p><p>"It was one short flight. I'll eat a bit more and we'll travel fine," and Sanguinius shrugs. Ralof sighs.</p><p>"Whatever you say," he settles on telling him, and he flags down the waitress for a hot meal.</p><p>Breakfast goes by normally, but once again Sanguinius's thoughts are elsewhere. Lydia looks at him unimpressed. Ralof raises his eyebrows at her. Lydia elbows him brutally, and Ralof chokes on his food, which finally alerts Sanguinius.</p><p>"Are you alright?" A little worry seeps into his tone. Ralof sputters.</p><p>"I— kah, agh, gods," he wheezes, missing Sanguinius's flinch. "I'm fi— kah! —fine. I'm fine." He clears his throat. "Ahem. No, uh—," and he hesitates, "it's just. You've been distant today."</p><p>"Am I not entitled to some culture shock?" Sanguinius says, a little too hard for it to be a joke. He looks away defensively.</p><p>"Of course you are! Just..." and Ralof sighs, shakes his head. "We're worried. Are you upset about something, or...?"</p><p>"You don't need to know <em>everything</em>," Sanguinius snaps.</p><p>“Whoah,” Ralof says, “Sanguinius—”</p><p>"Maybe I'm upset by your <em>primitive beliefs</em>,” Sanguinius blurts out. “Maybe I'm upset because you're involving me with them, shortly after my br— shortly after I rejected similar ones.” Sanguinius pushes his chair back as he speaks and stands up. “<em>Maybe</em>, and just <em>maybe</em>, I <em>might </em>be upset with you because you're acting like there’s nothing out of the ordinary about — <em>something </em>— <em>infecting </em>me after I killed one of your dragons, and about it meaning I'm some kind of divine chosen one, and about — about <em>everything about this!"</em> He throws his hands up in the air, and his wings fling half-open; Lydia and Ralof jump back in fear. "I don’t care if you still worship gods, you’ll grow out of it, but why do <em>I</em> have to be corrupted? Can I<em> please </em>avoid my brothers’ <em>fates</em>?!”</p><p>The inn is quiet, what with everyone looking at Sanguinius. His outburst has drawn the attention of every single person in the room. The fire behind him silhouettes him, an absurd parody of his crowning as Dragonborn. A chill runs down the spine of every single person in the room; a few shed singular tears of fear against anger so... so divine. Lydia is looking down in shame, tears dropping from her eyes silently. Sanguinius breathes in deep, and is about to continue when Ralof speaks up.</p><p>"I don't know what you've experienced, Sanguinius, but—" he begins.</p><p>"YOU DO <em>NOT!</em>" Sanguinius shouts. "My brothers have been BROKEN! They've been corrupted! Divided! <em>KILLED!</em> I WILL <em>NOT! </em>SHARE! THEIR!<em> FATES!</em> Whatever gods you worship, I assure you: they're ghosts, puppets for the forces that broke my family, and <em>BURNT </em>HUMANITY’S <em>LAST HOPE </em>to the <em>GROUND</em>. So instead of spitting on my father and luring me with your perverted traditions, you should just <em>f</em>—"</p><p>
  <em> <strong>—FUS!</strong> </em>
</p><p>Ralof is thrown into the air and hits the wall. There's a sickening <em>crack!,</em> and he slides down the wall and slumps to the floor, unconscious. Lydia watches it all, wide-eyed, and so do all the tavern's other patrons — and Sanguinius, who's pressing his hands over his mouth. Horrified.</p><p>In the following silence, all eyes turn to Sanguinius. Whispers begin rising again, one word whispered over and over: <em>Dragonborn. Dragonborn. Dragonborn</em>. Sanguinius looks around, mouth still covered. He looks at the tavern-goers, who shy away from his gaze. He looks at Lydia, who stumbles out of her chair and back. He looks at Ralof, unconscious— and he runs out.</p><p>Lydia runs after Sanguinius, but it's too late; from the door, she sees him shoot into the sky, the backdraft rustling the entire street.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sanguinius takes a hike. No answers are given.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry it's been so long! i had what the cool kids call "a mental breakdown" at the start of december and it wrecked my month. plus i've been a little burnt out on this fic. but it's all right, i'll shorten it if i have to, but with all the positive feedback i've been getting i'll definitely finish it!!</p>
<p>while you're here! if you like loyalist primarchs, earlier today/yesterday (if you follow me on <a href="https://luwupercal.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>) i posted a short fic set at the fortress of hera with a brand new original character of mine that's a bit of a puzzle fic (gasp!) like, you know those short stories where they don't tell you everything and you have to deduce things? yeah! you can go read it <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859229">here!!</a> it's very short, only 1.6k, but i hope you enjoy it!!</p>
<p>anyways, onto the fic!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sanguinius finds himself in the ruins of what once was Helgen, in the plaza where he was once set to be executed.</p>
<p>Everything is wrecked, covered in ash. Buildings are burnt to the ground. They've almost all collapsed, crumbling into coal under the dragon that destroyed the town. Sanguinius sets foot on the ground and keeps walking forward at full speed, taking in the impulse from his flight; it's cool and windy and he's a little cold, and his feet are bare and he can feel every inch of the ground's irregularities, the crunch of stepping on a carbonized ribcage and crushing it in one easy step, and he doesn't want to think about any of it.</p>
<p>The cart's still there, he finds. Turned over, its grey wood broken and crumbling. The thoroughly roasted body of a horse lays besides it. Sanguinius crouches by the cart, looking through the tarp that covered him, seeking — something. He doesn't know what. He doesn't know where.</p>
<p>He doesn't know, punctually, <em>where </em>he is. He needs to get a way to communicate with his brothers, his sons. They'll be thinking him dead, Sanguinius thinks, and he's surprised by a tear dropping from his face onto the ground. He digs through the cart, and then searches around it, on the other carts. Nothing. Absolutely nothing that indicates Sanguinius was ever… <em>not</em>... here. All papers he can find are burnt. Sanguinius's breathing quickens. His hands feel raw from uselessly searching; the archaeological dig presents no finds.</p>
<p>Sanguinius presses the side of his hand to his face, trying for once to wipe away rapidly-oncoming tears. It's useless; once he realizes what he's doing he steps back and slumps down, his back pressed against the cart's charred remains, and lets himself cry for a moment. He pinches his arm with all his strength and tilts his head back, pressing his eyes closed, as more tears run. He just needs to let this run its course and it'll be fine. It'll be fine, he'll get back to it and if he <em>can't </em>go home — the thought's interrupted by a moment of internal screaming; (what if) he can't go home, to his sons, to his brothers, to his father, to go back to fighting. He can't stop thinking about the fight, if his father survived it, if Horus did, because he's got this awful hunch that neither did in any way that matters and fate's bizarre designs are literally a law of nature. Alright. Deep breaths. If he can't go home... oh, <em>oh </em>he <em>doesn't </em>have a plan. He wonders for a second, hysterical, if this is the afterlife, despite everything; and despite everything, he finds he starts believing it. If this is the afterlife, could there be a way to escape it? He doesn't know. He doesn't think.</p>
<p>Eventually, the tears stop flowing, and Sanguinius continues watching the sky. He knows exactly where to go next, but he's got nothing but the clothes on his back; he needs a moment to prepare.</p>
<p><em>If they know what a Dovahkiin is, they'll know how to put it back</em>, he thinks. Sanguinius stands up and dusts himself off, and then, he starts running, and then he jumps into the air. </p>
<p>He bats his wings and soars up, up, up, as high as he can. He watches the trees in the ground and the carbonized ruins become smaller and smaller, rocks turning into pinpricks, until the mountains to his side can be seen from above. And then he turns, swooping from his upwards-spiral off towards the steep hills, following a barely-visible path through them. </p>
<p>Hours pass. The sun goes up, its rays hot on his skin, and slightly lowers as noon passes. Sanguinius has caught a wind current and is letting himself ride it, glancing lazily below — and forward — to make sure he doesn't bump into anything. His wings are starting to get tired. He surrounds the biggest mountain, unable to glance at its peak; there's a fortress up there, and a town below. He thinks, for a moment, about where he should land; landing on mountains is harder, since navigating the wind currents can be tricky, so he finally settles on the very base of the mountain, where as he gets closer, he thinks he can see steps, anyways. It shouldn't be too hard to climb, if baselines can do it.</p>
<p>The residents of the small village of Ivarstead, upon being prompted — a long time later — to reminisce about that moment, would recall a giant, winged man that glowed "like Talos himself" landing at the base of the Throat of the World, disturbing everything around him. </p>
<p>Sanguinius lets the impact go through his body and gives himself a moment to breathe. He stands up and turns around, noticing — of course — the entire village's eyes on him. </p>
<p>He ignores them and heads for the stone steps that he can see sprouting on the side of the mountain. He crosses a bridge, where two men look at him wide-eyed; one approaches him after a moment and walks by his side. Sanguinius ignores him, at first, so he starts speaking.</p>
<p>"On your way to High Hrothgar? About to make a delivery up there myself."</p>
<p>Sanguinius sighs. "You're a delivery man?"</p>
<p>"Sure I am," the man says. "Mostly food supplies like dried fish and salted meats; you know, things that keep fresh for a long time. The Graybeards tend not to get out much, if you catch my meaning."</p>
<p>"I see." </p>
<p>There's silence, for a moment.</p>
<p>Then, the other man sighs. "My legs aren't what they used to be," he says. "Climbing the 7,000 Steps takes its toll."</p>
<p>"It's brave of you to do it nonetheless," Sanguinius tells him. "Your devotion to the Greybeards is admirable."</p>
<p>The man looks at Sanguinius, a little hopeless, and nods; Sanguinius lets him trail long behind and continues onwards.</p>
<p>The path before him turns winding. Sanguinius continues up, occasionally sidestepping a long stretch of road to just climb over a corner. Everything is green and orange and silvery-blue. Trees' autumnal shades are dotted with dead leaves. A few goats run around him, and he's briefly delighted; he's fond of the animals, reminds him of his childhood. </p>
<p>Eventually, the path turns snowy. Sanguinius glances one last time at the trees below and continues onward. He finds, after a bit, a man roaming the snow, near a monolith; he's wearing surprisingly little. </p>
<p>"Keep an eye out for wolves if you're headed up the path to High Hrothgar," he warns Sanguinius. Sanguinius doesn't worry about it much — the wolves here are more like dogs — but he nods. Once again, he thinks of how much more Leman would enjoy this land. He can't say he likes the cold much, either. Sanguinius watches, a little curious, as the man kneels by the monolith and wipes a plaque on it clean with his thumb. The Primarch peeks at it, and finds he doesn't understand its runes.</p>
<p>"What does that say?"</p>
<p>"<em>Before the birth of Men</em>," the man begins, without hesitating, "<em>the Dragons ruled all Mundus; Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs; For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land</em>."</p>
<p>Sounded xeno to Sanguinius. I mean, yes, everything about the dragons sounded like a xeno beast, but <em>this </em>specifically indicated a sentience he'd only previously guessed about. He nodded. Just like the old times...</p>
<p><em>Maybe</em>, he thinks, <em>if the dragons were dead, the humans would see reason about their gods</em>. Who's to say.</p>
<p>He continues upwards. The snow gives way to sleet soon, and to several annoying wolves, whom Sanguinius doesn't have to even try to dispatch. They break their jaws trying to bite him, the poor creatures. As he climbs, Sanguinius half-wraps one wing around himself, trying to keep warm. His clothes, unfortunately, are not very warm; just foot wraps and a loose tunic, and pants that reach his mid-calf. He regrets leaving his improvised cloak behind. </p>
<p>Sanguinius is looking at the ground when he remembers his tablecloth-cloak and he remembers Ralof, and he remembers the horrible noise Ralof made while smashing against a wall, and he cringes at himself and tries not to think about the thunder that came from him, that he's never seen before.</p>
<p>Another stone monolith with a plaque. Sanguinius wipes it clean and, though unsure of its meaning, he memorizes the order of its runes; he can't lie and say he's not curious.</p>
<p>The path continues through the snow, steeply, and the cold winds make Sanguinius shiver. He wraps his wings around him the best he can, but his feet are soaking wet. He's survived lower temperatures than this, but it's still. Unpleasant, to say the least.</p>
<p>There's not much else to say from hereon out for a good while. Sanguinius keeps climbing the mountain, freezing his ass off. His eyes are caught by small piles, perhaps made to line the path, decorated with pieces of cloth; he steals one to wear around his head and neck, like a hood or a headscarf. He's warm, and it's what matters, even if the cloth is unsurprisingly chilly. </p>
<p>The view, Sanguinius finds, is gorgeous. The mountains look different here than from high up above, less simple geographical landmarks and now moreso protagonists of the horizon, spiking through the lower clouds in their simple, jagged elegance. He's always been fond of mountains, a geographical fault he never saw much of until adulthood; they're a bit exotic to him. </p>
<p>The quality of the steps is variable. Sanguinius tries to step on the drier parts of the path, but that's a tall order when everything is covered in snow. He shakes involuntarily, a brutal mega-shiver to bring in some body-warmth, and cozies his wings closer to his body. It's odd to see some steps so mistreated and worn down, while others are as perfect now as they must've been when they were first built. <em>Who carved them into the rock in the first place?</em>, Sanguinius wonders. Had anyone ever died carving them out? Making sure they were even? Had they been carved into the mountain itself? Perhaps during summer. He doesn't care enough to look into it later, really, but nonetheless...</p>
<p>The path descends onto a flat ribbon of ground, a sort of steep ledge over the void of the sharp, stone-filled valleys. There is another monolith, and sitting before it is a woman, cross-legged, seemingly unbothered by the cold. She's reading the monolith attently. She turns around and sees Sanguinius, and her only response is surprise, and then, a knowing smile.</p>
<p>"I was just outside Ivarstead when the Graybeards summoned the Dovahkiin," she mentions, apropos of nothing. Sanguinius tries not to let his disappointment show. "It's an exciting moment. Nothing like this has happened in centuries."</p>
<p>"I see," Sanguinius sighs. "...What does this plaque say? I can't... read it," he admits.</p>
<p>The woman turns her eyes to the monolith. "<em>Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man; Together they taught Men to use the Voice; Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue."</em></p>
<p>Sanguinius nods. Kyne and Paarthurnax; two names to commit to memory. Great human heroes? Xenos overlords? He has no way of knowing, especially not from the people here. He isn't sure if they could distinguish between the two.</p>
<p>"Thank you," Sanguinius tells her, and he continues onwards. </p>
<p>He stops to watch the beautiful view a few times, but it's not anything he hasn't seen before, in a thousand snowy planets that came before this one. Nonetheless, nature's been striking for the longest time, and it is human nature to simply never bore of the landscape. A canyon of sorts approaches, and Sanguinius is hesitant to enter it, at first; he can see something inside it, hear its large footsteps. Well. Whatever it is, he can deal with it. He steps into the canyon.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take him long to kill the frost troll. He focuses on the fight with a kind of concentration built from repeated practice, a methodical and intricate dance of violence he’s come to think of as merely mundane. Sanguinius gracefully dodges the troll’s heavy, slow blows. His comeback leaves it broken on the dirty snow, bleeding profusely, and with one solid kick between the eyes, dead.</p>
<p>Sanguinius continues through the canyon, and when he steps back out into the sunlight, there is a direct path towards a large stone fortress. It cuts a stark, dark figure against the snow and the blue afternoon sky. Something inside Sanguinius finds it somewhat familiar, at least more so than any other building he’s seen in Skyrim so far. Certainly, he’s seen towns with stone-paved streets and twisting wooden castles before, but High Hrothgar is the first place he’s seen that genuinely reminds him, somehow, of his life with the Imperium. What the memories it stirs within him specifically are, he’s not sure, but he recalls having both fought through and seen built fortresses like these in his father’s crusade.</p>
<p>Finally, Sanguinius lowers his improvised hood and approaches the fortress. The snowy stairs up to its large, twin doors are trodden on with only the companionship of the icy mountain winds; and the doors are more heavy in theory than in practice, as Sanguinius takes no time in opening them. </p>
<p>He steps in.</p>
<p>A dark room, with a tall, faraway ceiling. Everything is made out of a dark gray, carved stone. It’s surprisingly warm. Three men await him, wearing ragged, dark clothes and hoods from where grey beards peek out. A fourth one approaches Sanguinius. He eyes the Primarch with curiosity; he clearly wasn’t expecting him to be so… tall.</p>
<p>"So,” he says, “a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age."</p>
<p>“About that,” Sanguinius says. He clasps his hands politely behind his back, under his wings. “I believe you might have the wrong person.”</p>
<p>The old man mirrors his gesture. “That, we will see,” he says. “We will see if you truly have the gift. Show us, o Dragonborn,” and there’s a glint in his eyes. “Let us taste of your Voice."</p>
<p><em>My… voice?</em>, Sanguinius wonders, for a moment, then remembers the noise he made — his anger, Ralof crashing against the wall, Sanguinius leaving everyone behind… He catches himself before involuntary shaking his head at the memory and presses his lips together. Lets go of his clasped hands, and balls his hands up into fists on either side. Steps out, closer to the middle of the room. Looks at the ceiling. Breathes in deep—</p>
<p>
  <strong>FUS</strong>
</p>
<p>The whirlwind thunders across the chamber, rattling stone and metal and fabric and hair all the same. The old man nods approvingly, and the others look at each other, obvious pride in their glances.</p>
<p>“Dragonborn. It is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar,” the old man says.</p>
<p>Sanguinius visibly sinks. His shoulders drop, and his wings shakily lower.</p>
<p>"I am master Arngeir,” the old man continues, “and I speak for the Greybeards. Now, tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?"</p>
<p>“I am not your Dragonborn,” Sanguinius says. “At least, I don’t believe I am.”</p>
<p>Arngeir hums thoughtfully. “But you have the Voice,” he says. “There’s a prophecy.”</p>
<p>“It’s… difficult to explain,” and Sanguinius shifts awkwardly, unsure how to even begin. “But I’m not from this world, I’m far away from home, and apparently am now some sort of divine gift, which… I know where I came from, and my power comes from the opposite of divinity.” Regardless of— <em>rumours</em>. “I was hoping you’d have an idea of what’s happened, if we could discuss that…”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Arngeir seems surprised at Sanguinius’s words; of course, a medieval worlder. “We can certainly speak of it.” </p>
<p>He dismisses the other Greybeards with a gesture, and once they’re alone, turns once more to Sanguinius.</p>
<p>“Start from the beginning.”</p>
<p>Sanguinius keeps it brief. He explains that he was — knocked out, in battle, somewhere far away, and how he woke up here. He doesn’t dwell much on details when resuming his brief time in Skyrim, but does make mention of the glowing wall and the strange voice. He trails off after the dragon’s death, not quite wanting to reminisce on earlier this same day, but he finds he doesn’t have to: Arngeir’s already deep in thought, a puzzled frown on his face.</p>
<p>“The voice that spoke to you…” he says, after a moment. “It called you a ‘son of et’Ada’.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe I know what that is,” Sanguinius admits.</p>
<p>“Et’Ada… well,” Arngeir admits, “I am not a student of theology, but we have many books here. If I remember correctly, one claimed this was another term for the Original Spirits — the Divines, and the Daedric Princes.”</p>
<p>Sanguinius visibly takes a moment to process this information. “Your divinities,” he says. “And I was called— <em>son</em>, of them?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps a term for your Dragonborn powers? Dragons are— said to be, the children of Akatosh by some.” Arngeir is deep in thought.</p>
<p>“My father <em>isn’t </em>a god,” Sanguinius sighs. “He’s said so before. I fail to understand how, even here, this <em>keeps happening</em>.”</p>
<p>Arngeir glances at him with alarm, but says nothing. Ah. Without context, it doesn’t sound good, does it. “Maybe I could let you read some of the books we have,” he muses, “and you could try to piece this together yourself?”</p>
<p>“I would appreciate it greatly,” and Sanguinius punctuates this sentence with a warm smile. Arngeir looks away from it after a surprised —starstruck?— second, and heads off; Sanguinius follows after him.</p>
<p>Sanguinius remains in the Greybeards’ quarters for some time, and by some time what is really meant is hours. His digging into the Greybeards’ stock of knowledge eerily reminds him of some of his brothers, who he’d really rather not think about right now, but he waves away the upsetting memories the best he can by trying to find out what exactly is going on in this world He digs through the tomes, mentally noting old questions answered and new questions to ask; he follows several leads, occasionally having to blitz through books looking to pick up a specific code-word… but at the end, there’s nothing solid.</p>
<p>Well. He does think he understands wherever he’s ended up a little better. He has a working theory of how it’s been inhabited and who its inhabitants are, involving two waves of pre-Imperial colonization of this planet and mutation of those who first settled. He’d already long ago discarded the idea of this planet’s inhabitants simply not knowing much about the Imperium that ruled over them, but confirmation that it hasn’t even seen the Crusade is a little terrifying. He also thinks he has an idea about what those words the voice called him mean, even if he has none about what — or who — said voice could’ve possibly come from.</p>
<p>But he still has no clue what being a Dragonborn actually means, and why he is one.</p>
<p>When he seeks Arngeir out, the Greybeards are finishing their dinner. He hovers around the doorframe of their dining area for a moment, before he’s invited in.</p>
<p>“Sit down,” Arngeir tells him, and Sanguinius does so. Another of the Greybeards hands him a bowl of stew and a spoon. It’s mostly water; Sanguinius tacitly doesn’t point it out, just digs in. “Did you find anything?”</p>
<p>Sanguinius swallows a spoonful of stew. “Something,” he says. “There wasn’t much of any use, but I’ve learnt useful things.” <em>I wonder if the Greybeards will rejoin humanity willingly</em>, he absent-mindedly wonders. (By which, of course, he means ‘allow themselves to be colonized’). <em>Maybe I could persuade Arngeir myself, when push comes to shove</em>. “I’m still not clear on what a Dragonborn is, though, or how I could even… <em>become</em> one.”</p>
<p>“Not much has been written about the Dragonborn,” Arngeir admits. “There is a book about it for the layman in existence, but we don’t own a copy. We know the prophecy of the Dragonborn all too well ourselves.” He puts his own spoon down, but hesitates before stepping up and putting away his now-empty bowl. “It’s too late tonight, but tomorrow, at dawn, we will begin testing you. Afterwards, I’ll answer any questions you may have. If your existential questions about Nirn are done with, of course.”</p>
<p>“I think they are.” Daemons masquerading as divinities, xeno influence, mutants, all wrapped in a world-sized set of mythologies. Nothing too fantastical, but being trapped here is making Sanguinius antsy.</p>
<p>...Trapped?</p>
<p>One of the Greybeards shows Sanguinius to an improvised guest bed near the Greybeards’ sleeping quarters. Sanguinius lays in it, numb, unable to take his mind away from the unfortunate realization: if he <em>is </em>in a random unmapped medieval planet, then unless there is ancient, pre-Imperial technology stashed away somewhere, he has very few chances of leaving. He doesn’t know how to build a ship himself, and his wings don’t let him fly through space. He’s marooned here until the Imperium finds him, and who knows how long that could take?</p>
<p>He ponders the question for some time, trying to figure out a way to solve that conundrum. Sanguinius twists and turns in the too-small beddings all throughout the night, but he comes up with nothing; the idea of having to stay for so, so long, live out his immortality in this tiny, zealously religious world while his sons and the Imperium think him missing, or— <em>worse</em>… It’s almost unbearable. <em>Especially </em>if they’re intent in shoehorning him in some sort of divine prophecy.</p>
<p>It’s around three in the morning, maybe, when he gives up on sleep. Sanguinius wraps his blanket around his shoulders — he’s <em>not </em>shivering in the cold night air, he’s <em>just </em>more comfortable like this, thank you very much — and steps out into the dark stone hallways of High Hrothgar. Wandering comes naturally, as he can’t help but be curious about what, exactly, is the fortress he’s been summoned to is like; he finds it’s mostly icy hallways of rocky brick, moth-eaten banners and the occasional torch or firepit to light the way. Eventually, he finds himself crossing the doors to a courtyard. </p>
<p>Embers of a dying fire crackle in a pit at the center of a carved stone plateau, around which Sanguinius tiptoes barefoot, the icy cold creeping under his makeshift blanket-cloak and tickling his face. Stars above shine bright, against an aurora of green and purple and twin moons that feel as intuitive to Sanguinius as a singular one would to a Terran, and behind a gate there’s only increasingly chillier winds, forcing Sanguinius to back off. He spends a long time watching the skies, trying to find any constellation that could be familiar, but there’s no luck; wherever he’s been flung to, it’s a part of the galaxy he hasn’t been to before. </p>
<p>One of the Greybeards finds him asleep outside by the ashen fire-pit.</p>
<p>He’s woken at dawn for some trials. He’s dragged inside, to eat, and then back outside to the courtyard, where he’s taught more of those strange, glowing words he’s been told comprises this newfound Voice ability. Sanguinius lets himself learn them, rationalizing that if he’s already learnt one, more will surely be just useful rather than drag him into this further, since he can simply choose to not use this. He’s forced to run some tests with his new abilities, which are pointless to him, considering he’d ace these tests even without the strange words — <em><strong>WULD </strong></em>— that push him metres in seconds, at the <em>same </em>rough speed of his <em>running</em>. Argh. </p>
<p>Finally, around midday, the trials are over, and as the other Greybeards head inside to eat, Arngeir approaches Sanguinius again. "Your quick mastery of a new Thu'um is... astonishing,” he tells him. “I'd heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see it for myself..."</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Sanguinius says, curtly. “Is there anything else?”</p>
<p>“Yes. You are now ready for our final trial,” Arngeir tells him. The icy winds whip loose strands of hair onto Sanguinius’s face, too short to be properly tucked behind his ears, and rustle Arngeir’s titular beard. “You must retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav.”</p>
<p><em>Their founder?</em> “Who was he? Windcaller, I mean.”</p>
<p>“He was a great war leader of the ancient Nords,” Arngeir begins, his voice taking a narrative tint; “a master of the Voice, or Tongue. After… a battle,” he amends, deciding to skip anything that might be confusing to the obvious stranger, “where the Nord army was annihilated, he spent many years pondering the meaning of that terrible defeat. He finally came to realise... that the gods themselves had punished the Nords for their arrogant and blasphemous misuse of the Voice.</p>
<p>“And then he rose against them?” Sanguinius asks, quietly. A little flat. It’s what <em>he </em>would’ve done, but… he isn’t sure if. Well.</p>
<p>“No,” Arngeir answers, a bit puzzled. “He was the first to understand that the Voice should be used solely for the glory and worship of the gods, not the glory of men.” There’s a distant look of pride on his face as he says, “Jurgen Windcaller's mastery of the Voice eventually overcame all opposition, and the Way of the Voice was born.”</p>
<p>“Your method of… utilizing the voice?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Arngeir responds, “The Voice was a gift of the goddess Kynareth, at the dawn of time. She gave the mortals the ability to speak as dragons do.” A slight tilt to his head, imperceptible to any but superhuman eyes. “Although this gift has often been misused, the only true use of the Voice is for the worship and glory of the gods.”</p>
<p>“So this Kynareth… She can speak as the dragons do?” He remembers in his research, mentions of a god by the name of Kyne. Perhaps the same?</p>
<p>“I assume so.” Arngeir hasn’t thought about it before.</p>
<p>“And <em>she’s </em>who I’m to blame for giving me this… power?” There’s a plan forming at the corners of Sanguinius’s irises.</p>
<p>“No,” Arngeir tuts. He crosses his arms, an old man teaching a demigod, and Sanguinius can’t help but remember— someone freshly gone. “You are one of a few mortals <em>born </em>with the abilities of a dragon, able to learn and project their Voice, and to absorb the power of their slain brethren.” For an instant, Sanguinius is puzzled by the phrasing, recalling with confusion — well, it doesn’t matter now, because he understands, now, Arngeir meant <em>dragons</em>. “What you have already learned in a few days took even the most gifted of us years to achieve,” Arngeir adds, with a touch of sadness in his voice.</p>
<p>“And yet it’s only you four,” Sanguinius muses, half distracted by the icy mountain winds. “It’s a wonder your ways haven’t yet died out.”</p>
<p>“Five,” Arngeir corrects, and Sanguinius looks back at him with surprise. “Our leader, Paarthurnax, lives alone on the peak of the Throat of the World.” He clasps his hands peacefully, resting them against his front. “When your Voice can open the path, you will know you are ready to speak to him.”</p>
<p><em>A man who can live at the peak of the Throat of the World…</em> “Will <em>he </em>know who gave me this power, then?”</p>
<p>“If anyone does,” Arngeir tells him, “it would be him.”</p>
<p>“Then what am I waiting for? Why did you not let me meet with him earlier?” He’s genuinely puzzled; if the answers were so easy, why was he kept from them?</p>
<p>“Your Voice cannot yet open the path,” Arngeir repeats patiently. Sanguinius sighs.</p>
<p>“They do seem difficult to cross,” he admits, “but I have broken dozens of ice worlds. One more shouldn’t prove too much of a challenge.” And with that, Sanguinius sets off towards the icy peak before him, ignoring Arngeir’s loud complaints about how their leader <em>lives in isolation, and barely even speaks to </em>them<em>, much less an</em> outsider <em>like</em>…</p>
<p>As soon as Sanguinius is through the gate at the end of the courtyard, frozen winds start pushing him back; they bite at his bare limbs and he forces himself to push onwards, though he starts to shiver. The mist intensifies, but Sanguinius just wraps his wings around himself and, one hand pressed to the base of the mountain, he continues ever onwards. To his credit, this does work, if only for a moment — but then what looks like flying ice-snakes start buzzing around him, literally biting at him, and they’re slippery enough that Sanguinius has to use his wings to shatter them. The hot air he’d built up abandons him, and he’s exposed to the violent elements; he shivers violently, something he’s not very used to. He really, really misses his armor.</p>
<p>The path continues, spiralling up and up. Its curves narrowing must mean he’s close to the top, but Sanguinius is too cold to care. The wind howls. Clouds cover the sky. He begins sinking his feet deeper and deeper into the snow with every step, resisting against the winds; with his feet nearly bare, this becomes unpleasant very fast. He starts being almost thankful for the parts of the path that squeeze him between two rocks; at least, this way, he isn’t out in the frozen air. If he lags behind a few moments every time he steps through them, well, that’s not for me to tell. Eventually, though, he makes it up, body shivering and teeth chattering, his wings wrapped around himself like a coat of armor, and Sanguinius reaches a large plateau of flat snow. It’s ranked, he can barely see, by large stone formations, in arches around the edges; but there’s space in the middle, space for something <em>big</em>...</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>LOK
VAH
KOOR!</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p>Sanguinius’s squinting lookout is interrupted by a thunderous shout; he covers his eyes with his arm as the mist disappears in an explosion. When he uncovers his eyes, he’s struck by the sight of a giant ash-gray creature, silhouetted against the suddenly-sunny sky, landing before him: a vile lizard-like flying thing like the ones he’s supposed to slay, here. A dragon.</p>
<p>One that isn’t attacking him. <em>Is this another trial?</em></p>
<p>The dragon settles on the ground and cocks its head, bird-like. “Greetings, <strong>wunduniik</strong>,” he says, in a human-like voice, and Sanguinius is somewhat startled by its sudden display of intelligence. “I am <strong>Paarthurnax</strong>. Who are you? What brings you to my <strong>strunmah</strong>... my mountain?”</p>
<p>...That can’t be right. No— the Greybeards… they… they never said Paarthurnax was a man. <em>Oh</em>, Sanguinius is having some <em>words </em>with them as soon as he comes back down.</p>
<p>He steels himself, a determined look in his eye. A rogue gust of mountain wind pushes his hair behind his face. </p>
<p>“I am Sanguinius of the Imperium of Man, Primarch of the Blood Angels legion,” he says, as regal as he can be while freezing to death. “I was not told the leader of the Greybeards was a xeno, but I am nonetheless looking for answers.”</p>
<p>“I am as my father Akatosh made me,” Paarthurnax replies. “As are you... <strong>Dovahkiin</strong>.” But there’s hesitation in his words.</p>
<p>Sanguinius frowns. “So you do know of me, and who gave me these powers.”</p>
<p>“<strong>Vahzah</strong>. An educated guess. Forgive me,” and Sanguinius gets the odd impression the creature is smiling. “It has been long since I held <strong>tinvaak </strong>with a stranger. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech.”</p>
<p>Why can Sanguinius understand what these strange words mean, almost as intuitively as he once understood Gothic?</p>
<p>“I did not ask for Akatosh to interfere with my life,” Sanguinius explains. “Other gods have done the same before, and the consequences — both for me, and for all of mankind — have been disastrous. If he truly is a benevolent god,” impossible as that idea is, but Sanguinius will flatter him for now, “he’ll let me out of his plans and allow me to return home. If you know him, could I meet with him?”</p>
<p>Paarthurnax looks away from Sanguinius for a while before answering. “That is… <strong>pogaas laan</strong>,” he says finally. <em>Too much to ask?</em></p>
<p>“Then why are you here?” Sanguinius questions. “Holding ‘<strong>tinvaak</strong>’ with a stranger. Who, if not you, can lead me to whatever <em>thing </em>believes I’m its plaything now?” He pronounces the draconic word as stilted as he can, to make clear the air-quotes he believes should surround it, and yet the same power pulses when he says it as when Paarthurnax did. Sanguinius tries not to notice, and just tugs his wings closer as the winds start biting at him once again.</p>
<p>“Nothing can lead you to <strong>faal Bormah</strong>, <strong>Bormahu</strong>,” Paarthurnax says, “<strong>nid</strong>, at least, short of <strong>oblaan</strong>, Death.”</p>
<p>Something in that first sentence catches Sanguinius’s attention. “The father, Bormahu… Akatosh? He is your father?”</p>
<p>“In a way,” Paarthurnax admits. “You are someone who knows… <strong>brod</strong>. Family.”</p>
<p>“Is it that easy to tell?”</p>
<p>“For one as <strong>wuth </strong>as me, as old as me. I <strong>koraav </strong>a <strong>fron</strong>-<strong>rii</strong> in you. A kindred spirit. More than simply a fellow <strong>dovah</strong>.”</p>
<p>Sanguinius frowns. “How can I trust you when you say that?”</p>
<p>Paarthurnax looks back at Sanguinius, and there’s something gleaming in his eyes. “You would be wise not to trust me. <strong>Onikaan ni ov</strong>. I would not trust another <strong>dovah</strong>."</p>
<p>“And in that we differ,” Sanguinius says, and he stretches one wing back to reveal a sliver of crossed arms. “I trust my brothers.” Or… trusted them, once.</p>
<p>Sanguinius shakes his head, dismissing a memory, but lost in thought, he misses Paarthurnax’s reply.</p>
<p>A brief silence. Then, “Then why are you here?”</p>
<p>Paarthurnax tilts his head quizzically at the question. “Why am I here?”</p>
<p>“I do not understand,” Sanguinius admits, glancing away from the dragon with hardened eyes. He tries to shake Horus away from his thoughts. “You had no orders from your father. You betrayed your own, and—” he remembers something he’s read earlier, “you armed humans so they could defend themselves against your brothers, and you— <em>Why?</em> What do you get from this?” The answer would be kindness, of course, if he wasn’t a xeno. If he wasn’t a daemon-worshipping monster. But as it is, Sanguinius just <em>does not understand</em>. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest, conquering? Is it cowardice, or…?”</p>
<p>The sunlight flares above them both. When Sanguinius’s eyes meet Paarthurnax again, the dragon is visibly, endlessly exhausted. No, more than tired… sad. Grieving.</p>
<p>“You sound like… <strong>Krosis</strong>.” He shakes his head. “It is… <strong>Evenaar bahlok</strong>,” Paarthurnax says. <em>To extinguish hunger</em>. “There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed.”</p>
<p><em>JOIN US, SANGUINIUS</em>, an unearthly voice echoes in the angel’s memories. <em>YOUR SONS’ HUNGER WILL BE NO LONGER UNSATISFIED. KHORNE WILL TAKE THEM, AND YOU WILL NO LONGER HAVE TO FEAR OUR FATHER’S WRATH—</em></p>
<p>“Oh,” Sanguinius says, quietly.</p>
<p><em>HUNGER? SANGUINIUS, FEAR WHAT?</em> another voice joins. <em>FEAR ME? WHY?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?</em>
</p>
<p>“Yes,” Sanguinius admits, blinking away — <em>something </em>— he knows wasn’t brought on by the icy air. “That much we both know.”</p>
<p>A kindred spirit. With a great evil, a bringer of destruction, a sharp-toothed monster. Below the armor, though, Sanguinius is still human. Maybe they have this in common.</p>
<p>“...The Greybeards did not tell me you were a dragon,” Sanguinius admits. “They did not want me to come.”</p>
<p>Once again, Sanguinius gets the feeling Paarthurnax is smiling. “Hmm. Yes,” he admits. “They are very protective of me. <strong>Bahlaan fahdonne</strong>.” <em>A worthy ally</em>; who is? “You would be <strong>onik </strong>to heed their <strong>rot</strong>. Their word. The trials they set for you, <strong>drun</strong>-<strong>koraav</strong>, you will see it is not a trick. A weight, maybe. But… <strong>Nuz nonvul dur</strong>… <strong>Orin</strong>, <strong>zin dur</strong>. An honorable one. I do not have more answers than that.”</p>
<p>Sanguinius sighs. Paarthurnax is another dead end, then. “I shall, for now. If only because of the pain Alduin is causing these people. Your kind will not last against me.”</p>
<p>“My kind? Our kind. <strong>Mu ney dov</strong>.” Paarthurnax’s voice is light.</p>
<p>“My soul was crafted by the Emperor of all Mankind,” Sanguinius says, a bit irritated. “Not by any of your so-called gods. I am no such thing.” A beat. “But this conversation has made me… think. I will try to help these people.” <em>Regardless of what beliefs they hold</em>. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>Paarthurnax watches Sanguinius leave down the mountain, perhaps to acquire the instructions to his final trial from his allies, and when he’s sure Sanguinius is out of earshot, only then he responds to the Primarch’s final words: </p>
<p>“<strong>Nust ney Dov</strong>-<strong>Rah</strong>, <strong>ol</strong>-<strong>pruzah</strong>.”</p>
<p>...The trek back down the mountain takes Sanguinius the rest of the day.</p>
<p>He passes through High Hrothgar almost without speaking to the Greybeards, only confirming the location of Windcaller’s horn with Arngeir; he’s given lunch, which he eats with gusto, and then he heads down the Seven Thousand Steps. As he passes the monoliths, he finds that suddenly, their strange carvings are readable to him:</p>
<p>
  <em>The Voice is worship; Follow the Inner path; Speak only in True Need.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name; Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar; They blessed and named him Dovahkiin.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned; The 17 disputants could not shout Him down; Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled; Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven Year Meditation; To understand how Strong Voices could fail.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer; Founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice; Whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world; Proving for all that their Voice too was strong; Although their sacrifices were many-fold.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man; Together they taught Men to use the Voice; Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times; Unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices; But the Dragons only shouted them down and broke their hearts.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus; The Dragons presided over the crawling masses; Men were weak then, and had no Voice.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus; Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs; For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land.</em>
</p>
<p><em>...What corruption had this world’s inhabitants taken, just to save themselves from these beasts?</em>, Sanguinius wondered. <em>Is it perhaps sealed here? ...Am I meant… to bring it back?</em></p>
<p>He busies himself thinking about it on his way to Ivarstead. It makes sense. They know no other way to defeat these creatures, not without stooping to their level. And it is a corrupting influence; he would’ve never lashed out like that, like how he hurt Ralof, if it wasn’t for this Voice…</p>
<p>He’s so busy thinking about it that he almost bumps into someone at the bridge. The other person falls over; Sanguinius looks back at them, an apology on his lips, but it dies as he sees—</p>
<p>“Sanguinius?”</p>
<p>—Lydia, first surprised, and then grinning.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>whoops, another cliffhanger, sorry. don't worry, i'm sure ralof is fine. i mean i wouldn't know, don't ask me, but i'm sure ralof is fine, right?</p>
<p>stay safe, see you next update!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lydia complains, Sanguinius recalls a traumatic memory, the two return to Whiterun, cryptic hints about what’s going on are thrown into the air, and I get to uncork some fine headcanon vintage.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter is so weird and i'm not entirely sure i even like it but i did have fun writing it so... hope you enjoy LOL. i meant to make it longer but i kind of crashed and burnt at this point so i decided fuck it i'm cutting it here and putting the rest of this chapter into the next one. including possibly a Scene i've been thinking about since i started writing this fic, so you might be seeing some fun things in the future of this fic. stay safe everyone xoxo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lydia’s good mood doesn’t last.</p><p>Sanguinius helps Lydia up, stupefied, as she starts chastising him for his sudden disappearance and complaining of all the trouble she’d gone through to find him; barely disguised in her voice is relief, but if Sanguinius notices it, he says nothing.</p><p>“...and of <em>course </em>you had to leave everything like <em>that</em>, didn’t you,” Lydia tells him, a bit angry, “without even warning us, leaving that mess in the Bannered Mare—”</p><p>“Where’s Ralof?” Sanguinius asks, puncturing her speech. Lydia trails off, surprised. <em>Oh</em>, Sanguinius thinks numbly, <em>so he<strong> is</strong></em>—</p><p>“He’s alive,” Lydia begins, dispelling the biggest of Sanguinius’s worries like mist. “But he’s… severely injured.” She grimaces. “Broken bones. <em>You </em>did that, my thane.”</p><p>“I’ve done worse.” And for much the same reasons. It feels hollow, nonetheless, to state it.</p><p>“That’s…” Lydia doesn’t even finish the sentence. “Well. I am still sworn to you,” she reminds him, “no matter how reckless you may be with men’s lives.”</p><p>The way she says it gives Sanguinius pause. “I am <em>not </em>reckless,” he tells her gravely. “Not with <em>others’ </em>lives. Ralof was just… an accident. I don’t usually…” He doesn’t elaborate, though Lydia doesn’t interrupt the long pause while he organizes his thoughts. “...Let’s get a move on,” he eventually settles on. “We’ve got places to be.”</p><p>Sanguinius speeds off. Lydia follows after him, almost slipping again on the bridge’s uneven brickwork; Sanguinius doesn’t temper his speed to let her catch up, so Lydia lags behind him, almost jogging.</p><p>“Where are we going?” she demands.</p><p>“Ustengrav,” and Sanguinius doesn’t bother looking back at her, just continues past the inn, down the road.</p><p>“Do you even <em>know </em>where that is?”</p><p>Sanguinius slows down, just a bit, but enough for Lydia to catch up and glare at his embarrassed face. “Northwest of here,” he says, “near somewhere called Morthal. I figured I could— we could reach it, first, and ask for directions there.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>gods</em>, we’re going to <em>Morthal?</em>” Sanguinius winces, and Lydia misses it. “That place is awful.”</p><p>Sanguinius skids to a stop, on the outskirts of town. “You’ve been there before?”</p><p>“A long time ago. Why?”</p><p>“Then what are we waiting for?” Sanguinius demands. “Let’s fly there.”</p><p>Lydia grimaces and starts messing with the braid in her hair. “Can we please eat a solid meal first?” she begs. “I don’t trust Morthal to have any food that doesn’t taste like swamp.”</p><p>“Oh, come on, Lydia,” Sanguinius tells her. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”</p><p>A feast of a hot meal, a lightening of pockets, and an intensely boring multi-hour flight later — one only interrupted by a roaming dragon, which Sanguinius decided to avoid rather than fight — Lydia is unceremoniously dropped on the road in the middle of a cold, snowy swamp, in plain view of the town of Morthal. </p><p>She drops from a few inches above the ground with an <em>oof!</em>; Sanguinius promptly lands beside her, and they both glance at the dark, snowy town.</p><p>It's night-time, and the sky's covered in clouds, poised as if to rain; the mist well underscores the homes covered in dirty slush, and just a few guards patrol the streets with flickering torches. Sanguinius speeds by Lydia's side, and she follows after him; he approaches a guard and politely requests the directions to the inn, which the guard gives after their brain catches up with their eyes. Lydia's passing by the guard, a few steps behind Sanguinius, when they mutter under their breath,</p><p>"Adventurers? Good news, then," to which they add, a bit louder, "Jarl's been looking for someone who ain't superstitious. Be lookin' for a fool if you ask me, though." Sanguinius makes a mental note of the guard's words, but for now, it's late and he's spent the entire day flying — he's exhausted. </p><p>On their way to the inn, they pass a burnt down house. Sanguinius passes by it, and Lydia follows — and then Sanguinius walks back, glances at the burnt wreck strangely.</p><p>"My thane?" Lydia wonders.</p><p>"I'm coming," Sanguinius tells her, distracted. Something is... amiss with that house, it's obvious, but what?</p><p>At the inn, the innkeep — a dark-skinned woman who introduces herself as Jonna — mentions once again that the Jarl's looking for someone to help with something. Sanguinius doesn't even look at Lydia's reproaching stare as he promises Jonna he'll ask.</p><p>Before they eat, he asks Lydia to look into getting supplies from the town. It doesn't have a general goods store, but it does have the inn, and an alchemist's shop (primitive healing methods, but surprisingly effective ones, if Lydia's later answers to his questions over dinner about where Ralof is and what's being done to him are anything to go by; and she has, frankly, no reason to lie). </p><p>While she's gone, Sanguinius leaves to visit the Jarl. He learns she's a sharp-minded psyker who knows she knows a little too much for her own good, which is a familiar enough situation that he recognizes a certain mutual wistfulness; and he learns that she suspects the house's former owner of having committed arson in the throes of mortal lust, a would-be fairly mundane situation — if only there was any evidence.</p><p>Afterwards, the two travellers get a room — a double bed for Sanguinius, and a single for Lydia — and a hot meal, and during the night, as he does not rest a wink, Sanguinius's mind returns to the haunted house. </p><p>He sneaks out in the middle of the night, as ice-cold rain pours down upon the town, and heads for the burnt husk; as soon as he enters it, Sanguinius sees the ghostly figure of a young child sitting by the ashen, still-standing fireplace, and when she looks up at him, she innocently asks,</p><p>"I'm lonely. Will you play with me?"</p><p>When Sanguinius touches the child's shoulder, his hand goes through; whatever this odd mirage might be, it doesn't seem to be harmful, so he warily agrees. Sanguinius turns around and pretends not to see her out of the corner of his eye as she disappears through the path behind the burnt-down house; as soon as she’s done, he follows her. The wind howls in the cold, dark night as thunder rumbles through the sky, and as he turns by a tree, Sanguinius sees a coffin on a hole in the ground, before which is a woman, who sees him, hisses through all-too-sharp teeth, and charges at him.</p><p>Sanguinius is struck by <em>familiarity—</em></p><p>He'd taken a particular liking to one of his sons. He was fond of all of them, really, but he hadn't quite gotten to know them, by that point. <em>He</em>'d been a captain, one from before he was found, from Terra; a hot-blooded man with a young-looking almost-babyface and dark hair dyed an armor-matching crimson. His name had been Fauĵtinus, no, call him Fauĉjo, he'd insisted to anyone who'd listen; and Sanguinius had overheard him on his first days alongside his Legion and he'd seen his eyes widen when his Primarch had called him by a nickname and then he'd been the first one to actually approach him and talk to him about how things worked, and Sanguinius hadn't mentioned that the way his nickname shortened his name reminded him of a Baalite word, a name parents called their children. With Fauĉjo's inside intel he'd been able to walk by his sons unnoticed and drop into their conversation with a scary familiarity, mispronouncing just the right thing to get them to cringe, like the adults Sanguinius had been raised by had done when they'd heard of his ex-peers' childish interests, and he'd giggled privately at how it all was clicking for him, even if Sanguinius had never really seen himself as the type to have blood children of his own. (Subliminal meddling within the foetus-self, of course, does that to a man).</p><p>What they'd been fighting, that time, had been unimportant. Non-compliant humans, yes; he could name the world down to its climates, its capitals, its leaders at the time. Everything about that campaign had remained seared in his eyes. <em>It </em>hadn't done anything important enough to be worthy of being seared, no, willingly engraved on the Primarch's mind; it'd been merely by chance that this was here when he'd first seen — <em>it</em>.</p><p>And really, wasn't that the worst part of it? </p><p>(No, obviously no, but it still, to use a particularly childish piece of slang, blowed. <em>Majorly </em>so).</p><p>Sanguinius never spent much time thinking of <em>that </em>instance of, <em>it</em>, that... <em>that </em>instance, in particular. Certainly not if he could think about, uh, perhaps <em>anything </em>else. Absolutely not about how Fauĉjo had been so annoyed at this world's inhabitants for rebelling against the Imperium, <em>when</em>, he said, <em>ever since our forces had rolled into their world it’d only benefitted <strong>them</strong></em>; he'd been at their original conquest, and though they'd made what he called ‘a fuss’, he hadn't expected rebellion to re-surge within them so quickly. Definitely no thoughts, either, about how that anger had— <em>intensified</em>, within Fauĉjo, how his mood had been soured and he'd started barking orders instead of merely giving them out, and how he'd heard whispers that he had nightmares every night that kept him from sleeping. </p><p>But he'd never forgotten the tear-streaked face that had set off the explosive, a slip of a thing in drab fatigues, no more than five feet, and he hadn't forgotten Laokon's howl of agony and Sanguinius had certainly, definitely, never forgotten Fauĉjo's face just before he cracked, when he saw the chunk of flesh torn from his brother's body by the bomb, and how his eyes had shifted minutely, just so, and how before they knew it, he'd pounced.</p><p>By the time they pulled him away from the enemy combatants, he had gore streaking down his chin, bits of meat stuck between his bared teeth as he hissed. Pupils contracted, he'd been unable to say anything but nonsensical babbling, furiously blinking away tears; acid charred at the corpses he'd made before being restrained, their dead skin bubbling where he'd torn out their throats, going for the jugular like a feral wolf, and Sanguinius had wept in violent, blubbering shock over him. When the thing that had been Fauĉjo spat at his battle-brothers, burning sizzling holes into their vambraces, one of them had done what Sanguinius could not, and Fauĉjo's brains had splattered all over Sanguinius's lap.</p><p>Sanguinius had always had a… reputation, so to speak; had always held an air of being someone who, even while crying, was beautiful. This gentle weeping had not come to him naturally, however, and he doubted any of his brother Primarchs had ever developed it; no, these tears flowed peacefully through practice alone.</p><p>...Anyways, as soon as he notices that the hissing, dribbling woman is coming full speed towards him, Sanguinius bats her away with a slap of the hand. He doesn’t even hear her neck snap.</p><p>A voice emanates from the coffin; clearly, whatever Warp spirit has attached itself to this murder wants him to believe it's embodying the little girl's spirit. Sanguinius stares at it from over two hundred years ago, pupils contracted and eyes wide and unseeing, head tilted just so. He takes a step. When the spirit ceases its childish chittering, a background noise like annoying baby-voiced static within the Primarch's gene-enhanced perceptions, the coffin's lid barely has time to slide closed when a fist breaks through it. </p><p>The fist recedes. Another punch — another hole in the coffin. A third one. A fourth. A fifth.</p><p>A sixth and seventh and eighth and ninth—</p><p>—and Sanguinius tastes blood dripping from his bottom lip, his face pulled into a wrathful snarl. </p><p>He growls, hissing through his extended fangs at his own loss of control; he takes a step back, blinking away burning tears, and with one final kick leaves the girl’s final resting place completely wrecked. Equaling, maybe, the disrespect the spirit who’d stolen her form had shown her memory.</p><p>Sanguinius sits down in the dirt, in front of the child’s coffin, and looks up at the sky. Rain drops down onto him, mercurial water gleaming dully like the condensed silver-mist it is; it threads through his hair like a lover’s fingers, rendering it stringy and wet. He doesn’t know how long he spends counting down his breaths after the memory of Laelette’s starved eyes abandon him; he doesn’t know <em>why </em>it’s hitting him this hard, shouldn’t he be used to it? Sucker-punched and left gasping for air, the coppery stink of Sanguinius’s own ichor abandons him as it stains the neck of his shirt. Only when the rain abates into a drizzle is he roused, and it is by desperate pain-howls; a man is weeping over the corpse of the thing that was his wife.</p><p>When, in his desperation, he wails out an admission of suspicion towards someone named Alva, Sanguinius moves again. The weeping man is startled and scrambles back as the giant angel rises from the grave and wordlessly leaves the burial site for the town.</p><p>Dawn has rung by the time Sanguinius, thanks to a helpful guard, reaches Alva’s home. He watches the owner of the burnt house walk out of its door and leave towards scorpion-knows-where. </p><p>He kicks the door in.</p><p>A guard approaches him, weapon raised, but Sanguinius glares at them and they flee, tail between their legs. The Primarch has to bend over to enter the home, and as he makes his way towards the cellar, he wonders, <em>what am I doing?</em> He can’t answer the question with anything but <em>“being compelled by something to see this through”</em>.</p><p>As soon as he enters the room she’s sleeping in, Alva hisses and pounces on him. He catches her by the throat. She starts struggling, clawing at his arms; rips stripe his skin, like an angry animal’s handiwork. He holds her shoulder with his off hand, grips her jaw, and snaps. It’s enough. He throws the thing that was Alva’s body to the ground. It bounces like a ragdoll; he picks up her leather journal and flips through it speedily. </p><p>The journal snaps him back to some degree of sense. Even if he wanted to simply storm the lair of the — <em>thing </em>— responsible for all of this, he doesn’t know where it is; and if an ambush on the town’s coming, the best thing he can do is tell its leader. So he heads out, back to the Jarl’s home, where she’s just woken up, and he lets her know what’s happening.</p><p>She tells her she’ll send some men to smoke out the thing responsible for the deaths; she doesn’t ask him to lead the mob, and so he doesn’t. But when he returns to the inn and finds Lydia ordering breakfast, he slunks down on a seat at the table, and gloom covers his eyes. ...He still orders some food for himself, though, and for a while, as they eat, there is silence.</p><p>Lydia glances at his face, its handsome features distant in faraway thought over their breakfast spread. The meal is a bit more expensive than she'd anticipated— though, realistically: he's just flown for an entire day, and carrying her, so why'd she not see it coming? She feels like kicking herself a little. Her grumpiness is only partially because of her tossing and turning, though; she also can feel this town ominously lurking both at the edges of her mind and in Sanguinius's grinding mental gears, and she—</p><p>She sees Sanguinius open his mouth and immediately cuts him off. "My thane," she says, "you will not make me spend another evening in this town. Please," she punctuates. Sanguinius looks at her with surprise, head tilted just a little, chin held high. Lydia doesn't back down, though she can't bring herself to stare at his face, and Sanguinius, eventually, nods, already resigning the town to a mere memory.</p><p>They leave Morthal’s gloomy buildings behind and trek for a while north-west, to where they’ve heard Ustengrav is located. Not much happens on their way there; Sanguinius sees for the first time a glowing plant that emits a high-pitched noise, and Lydia tells him its name. He takes a leaf from the nirnroot plant experimentally and its whirring doesn’t subside; the leaf smells like fresh mint, albeit a bit sharper. It still rains today, and Sanguinius repeatedly finds himself suddenly shivering, shaking away droplets. Lydia laughs and hides behind her shield whenever he does it, not wanting to be splattered, and Sanguinius grins every time she does so, though the little thought that’s been worrying him since breakfast continues its nagging. She may be sworn to him, but will she follow him if he brings the Imperium upon this planet? </p><p>As he wanders through the woods, following Lydia and her expertly-wielded map, he wonders, suddenly, if the Imperium would consider his newfound power enough to declare him traitor, and his blood runs cold just for a moment before Lydia cheerfully shouts out that she’s found the edge of the tomb.</p><p>It consists of a circular depression in the ground, with a grate under some barrels that leads the rain-water somewhere into the dungeon’s depths. In the half-underground walls, a wooden door stands, by the fresh corpse of someone recently slain; it’s stood the test of time surprisingly well, but its hinges still squeak with disuse when Sanguinius enters Ustengrav.</p><p>The first room down the stairs is as tall as a voidship’s amphitheatre, though much narrower, with columns and debris cluttering it. Psykers in dark robes dot the chamber, engaged in battle, shooting fire and ice at each other; most step back when Sanguinius passes by them, and the few that break out of their shock for long enough to attack him are summarily dismissed from existence by him and Lydia. They continue down through the already-familiar style of Skyrim’s catacombs, finding more and more of those corpse-like creatures — draugr, and Sanguinius winces at the memory attached to their name — and slaying them as soon as they attack. </p><p>They turn a corner after a while, and a huge cliff dropping into an abysmally large cavern welcomes them, moonlight through a hole in the ceiling illuminating the towers of what almost looks like a city. Lydia’s jaw drops at the sight, but Sanguinius barely spares it a glance; he’s seen more impressive underground cities, and he hasn’t felt comfortable in any of them. The mere sight makes him ache to stretch his wings.</p><p>Two meters away from the cliff, the path is covered by pressure plates that spit out fire. Which Sanguinius discovers first, much to the chagrin of his charred wings. Figuring out the path by gingerly pressing the plates from a safe distance lets the duo continue on their path with a minimal amount of third-degree burns, though there’s a few close calls thanks to Lydia’s newly-discovered clumsiness under pressure; and so, they continue on their way. The descent becomes quickly repetitive. Draugr and fire, and draugr, and fire, and more draugr, and even more fire. Eventually, though, they reach the bottom of the cliff — and then, Sanguinius hears it.</p><p>Lydia turns around, halfway through a word, and sees her thane stumble, as if unwilling, towards a great, curved stone wall. </p><p>Sanguinius falls to his knees before it, and the thunder in his ears roars; the carvings on the wall glow and echo through his eyes, bathing his sight in white and blue, and</p><p>
  <em>TIME ISN’T AS CRUEL A</em>
</p><p>
  <em>MASTER AS ROYALTY WAS.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>TRUTH ISN’T FAITH, YET IS.</em>
</p><p>As soon as he’s done with the Word, Sanguinius stands up and falls straight into the pond by the wall.</p><p>Lydia rushes to his side. “My thane—”</p><p>The pond is shallow enough for Sanguinius to not even really need to surface, merely flop around and face his housecarl. "I'm fine," he tries to indicate, waving a hand around; his hair's sopping wet, and it's just on this side of uncomfortable.</p><p>Lydia kneels by his side, unsure of what to say. "...We need to keep moving," she finally decides, and Sanguinius nods, dumbly. He thinks of the wall, and of the wall's words, and he feels nausea bloom in his chest like a carrion flower — but he tries not to show it, and so he merely stands up and follows the torchlight Lydia carries up and away from the Wall.</p><p>Their path leads to a room with three intricately carved stones. When Lydia approaches one of them, its runes glow red and it emits a droning sound; somewhere, the noise of whirring metal artifice scratching against rock. It doesn't take them long to figure out it's the opening mechanism for a distant door, and Sanguinius realizes this is why he was taught the sprinting-Shout back in High Hrothgar. He won't even <em>need </em>it; he can get from one side to the other in time just fine without it, but he entertains using it nonetheless for a moment — just to pay respects to the Greybeards; what respect does he owe them, though? — before forcefully dismissing the thought. They blitz through the puzzle and the following rooms, which mostly consist of traps that spit fire and nasty spiders, and Lydia blurts out what Sanguinius, too, is thinking when she declares herself to be truly sick of this dungeon. </p><p>And then, just like that, as if her words had summoned its premature end, the two find themselves walking past a gate into a large chamber, where a large stone path across a large pool of water leads the two, amidst a series of bird-like statues rising from within the pool, to an elaborate ancient tomb, surrounded by burning candles and urns, and above it...</p><p>...is <em>not</em>, actually, the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, but instead, a note. The ink it's written with is still fresh.</p><p>Sanguinius, baffled, steps forward and takes it. He reads the brief missive out loud. It is a petition, signed by "a friend", to rent a room at the "Sleeping Giant Inn"...</p><p>"...the one in Riverwood?" he finishes, puzzled. Then, he remembers the woman: both at the inn in Riverwood, and at Whiterun, before the dragon attacked. His eyes flicker once more down to the letter, where there's a few more lines:</p><p>
  <em>"If you are what I think you are, I urge you to come even more."</em>
</p><p>He doesn't read that line out loud, though, simply folds the letter in half and hands it to Lydia, who stuffs it in her bag without reading it.</p><p>A door in the back leads them to a stone passage, which leads them back to the tomb's first chamber; as soon as they're outside, Sanguinius picks Lydia up and sets off, flying over the woods — and Morthal — and the swamp — and the fields — and eventually, just after a gloriously pink sunset, he lands by Whiterun.</p><p>They reach the city shortly thereafter. As they walk to the gates, they watch the torches being lit. By now, the guards have heard of the Dragonborn’s identity, no less considering he’s Thane now, and so they let them pass without remark, though with some hesitant reverence in their manner. Sanguinius mostly ignores them and speeds by on his way in, but Lydia takes a moment to delight in the way they defer to, if not her, then at least her companion. </p><p>The two get a room at the Bannered Mare, wherein Sanguinius is chastised by the innkeeper as her assistant hides behind the bar; he offers to pay for the repairs, but Lydia informs him he doesn’t have enough money, so he instead offers to be in her debt. She huffs and accepts the deal; a debt from a Thane is... <em>fine</em>, considering the damages weren’t career-endingly expensive. When Saadia hands them their dinner, she seems about to ask Sanguinius something, but backs out at the last moment.</p><p>Their dinner goes by quietly, though Sanguinius is still thinking of the past couple of days’ events; but eventually, he notices Lydia’s glancing up at him every so often, thoughtful. He’s about to say something when she finally says,</p><p>“Ralof’s at the Temple of Kynareth.”</p><p>Sanguinius is standing before she even finishes the sentence.</p><p>He leaves without paying, though Lydia stays behind to hastily pay off their debt, and heads out through the streets of Whiterun, the past three days erased from his mind. Sanguinius arrives to the Temple quickly; only at its doorstep does he realize <em>where </em>he is, and he grasps the doorway as he steels himself to walk in—</p><p>—and as he’s steeling himself, he catches the sight of Ralof, asleep on a stone bed in one side of the Temple.</p><p>Bandaged all over — <em>a cast?</em> —, with something attached to his hip —<em> a splint? For his…? Oh, no, no</em> —, Ralof twitches in his sleep, grimacing. He’s in pain; by his side there are a dozen bottles, several still containing some of the glittering red liquid Sanguinius recognizes as healing potions. He’s not wearing his armor, nor his blue clothes; he’s wearing a loose tunic that’s just large enough on him to make him look almost frail. His hair is tangled, and even in the low light, Sanguinius can see bags under his eyes.</p><p>Sanguinius’s blood runs cold. Location, Kynareth and powers forgotten, he looks at Ralof with wide eyes and lips just barely parted, a worried glint in his eyes as they try to, nonsensically, stare <em>softly</em>, lest he cause his friend any more harm. Sanguinius is caught between breaths, the soft light of the Temple’s candles just barely illustrating his features, but catching his hair aglow, bouncing on the curls around his face to just barely trace a soft pink lip, a sharp cheekbone, a dark eyelash or an aquiline nose. He brings one hand up to his chest, palm curled inwards above his heart, as if holding it like a scared animal, and he presses his lips together; and with that, Sanguinius steps into the Temple of Kynareth, ready to speak again.</p><p>He crosses the Temple. The floor is made out of tiles, organized into a mosaic; he doesn’t pay attention to its beauty as he arrives to Ralof’s bedside so carefully, as if trying to avoid upsetting some mercurial <em>je ne sais quoi</em> Above, instinct and superstition winning over the oh-so-Truthful Primarch, and he kneels by Ralof’s side onto the tiled floor so softly you can only hear the whisper of his wings hitting the floor, feathers brushing against tile. And Sanguinius, the Great Angel, eclipses the mere soldier he watches over as he so delicately brushes a blonde lock from his sleeping face and scrunches up his face, trying not to cry.</p><p>(A drip-drip-drip upon the tiled floor is the only evidence of his failure).</p><p>He doesn't have much to say, he finds. Eloquence has abandoned Sanguinius when confronting the failures of, if some bias may be permitted, his father's thoughtless and unjust doctrine. He doesn't know why, but his actions only fully hit him now; his cheeks redden when he suddenly sees his previous anger as a tantrum, one thrown for his own reasons, of course, his own trauma, but— <em>but Ralof, </em>he thinks<em>, didn't deserve to be the victim of my own problems. Even if he is duped by whatever did that to— to Horus.</em> "<em>To Horus</em>", and with that he feels his improvised little necklace, which he's been carrying all along!, hang heavy from his neck like a loosened noose. <em>Even if they are both victims of the same thing, he has not been twisted like Horus was, it’s clear to see; he did me no wrong, and </em>this <em>is how I've repaid him.</em></p><p>It is, all in all, a harrowing sort of thought.</p><p>He doesn't know for how long he stays there, kneeling, glazed eyes unfocused on the cast wrapped around Ralof's midsection, bleeding-heart thoughts spiraling into near-necrotic worry, but he's eventually roused from the doom spiral he's circling by Ralof's breathing quickening, and, after a moment, him blinking awake. </p><p>Ralof squints, not fully processing, and Sanguinius freezes like a startled deer. Ralof realizes who he's looking at after a second and freezes, too.</p><p>Neither of them begin talking for a while.</p><p>"You're—"</p><p>"I am—"</p><p>They both cease their yapping at the noise of their voices overlapping. Sanguinius lifts a knuckle up to his mouth, half-covering it, but Ralof seems too weak to be much more than confused and surprised.</p><p>"...You start," Ralof eventually says. His voice is a bit raspier than usual.</p><p>"I am... so sorry," Sanguinius begins, and he pauses, and before he continues he seeks out Ralof's hand in a hazedly-allowed ploy to find out what in <em>Oblivion </em>to say. "I— I did not know it would— I did not know I would do that. Or— I could do that. I lashed out, and I apologize for hurting you. I truly, truly did not mean it."</p><p>Ralof stares at him for the duration of his speech and some more, but then looks away. "I figured," he sighs more than says. Something catches in Sanguinius's brain, like a bubble, or like a jammed bolter's trigger. "I figured," Ralof repeats, and then he elaborates, "You don't know of the gods. I don't know where you could possibly come from to not know from the gods, but... as strange as it is to admit it, I'd lash out, too." A pause. "Maybe we shouldn't trust some random stranger with gifts like the Voice, eh?"</p><p>Sanguinius cracks a smile at that. "It wouldn't be the first world I've saved, but you've got a point."</p><p>Ralof squints. "You're bragging."</p><p>"I'm really, truly not." (Though, Sanguinius's definition of 'saved' is... a non-standard one, to say the least).</p><p>There's a pause.</p><p>"What can I—," Ralof weakly shakes his head, backtracks. "Is there anything I can do, to make you more comfortable with our gods?"</p><p>Sanguinius winces. "Not at the moment," he admits, "but... until you see the truth of how poisonous this sort of thing is, maybe I could just. Let you be. And we can agree to disagree until that."</p><p>"And we can agree to disagree until you accept our gods are good," Ralof echoes.</p><p>"I... sincerely doubt it," Sanguinius admits, "but it'll do for now."</p><p>Ralof huffs, amused. "I had half a mind to recruit you to the Stormcloaks, you know."</p><p>"Fighting against empires is something I've killed people for doing," Sanguinius tells him bluntly. "A traitor… put me here. I'm unsure I'd be the best rebel."</p><p>"When the most loyal men turn, they turn the strongest," Ralof says absentmindedly, as if quoting something; Sanguinius freezes, feeling something icy and sharp dig suddenly against his lungs. Ralof doesn't notice his alarm, only continues with, "And I'm sure you'd see the justice in our cause. We're tired of many things the Empire has done. They can't just come here and tell us what to do like they do."</p><p>"Well, sometimes it's just better to let someone else in charge, isn't it?" tries to argue Sanguinius, still distracted by the remark. "It's better to be united under one leadership than to fight amongst ourselves, isn't it? Strength in unity, and all."</p><p>Ralof looks at him like he's just said he drinks poison for fun. "Not when it's forced, Sanguinius."</p><p>"Why not?"</p><p>Ralof actually gapes at that. Sanguinius has to move back a bit, to let him sit up; he grits his teeth at the movement, but looks back at the Primarch with distrustful eyes. "Bec— What <em>world </em>do you live in where these things go peacefully, for <em>one</em>?"</p><p>"No, of course they don't," Sanguinius backpedals, "but— it's for the greater good, isn't it?" Reuniting humanity, isn't it?</p><p>"It's not worth it." Ralof sighs. "But that's for another time, I s'pose." He lays back down and glances at the bottles; Sanguinius reaches over to one and hands it to him, and Ralof carefully sips the last few drops of curative potion within it. "These always make me tired," he mentions, and Sanguinius can only nod dumbly and watch as Ralof’s eyes close. His breathing slows down, and before Sanguinius’s head can stop spinning, he’s already asleep.</p><p>When he steps outside the Temple, Lydia is there, waiting patiently for him.</p><p>“Eorlund Gray-Mane’s finished a mockup of your armor, my lord,” she tells him. "He says by tomorrow we can go and pick it up."</p><p>Oh, of course; it's night-time, and pinpricks of starlight hang high above their heads. Sanguinius heads back to the Bannered Mare with his housecarl, directly to the room they've rented out, and he collapses onto the bed he's rented with a heavy <em>thud</em>. Sleep hits him in the head like a hammer.</p><p>At first, his rest is… well… restful; hours pass without him noticing. But eventually, his mind’s eye starts swirling, without noticing, into a drea—</p><p>—and a slideshow of flashing images interrupts. Mercury tears. The scent of rotting milk. A still-beating heart. Are those green things eyes? His hands, holding someone else’s. Those same, uncalloused hands, holding the piece of metal that’s been hanging from his neck for the past few days. His—his father, and... was that a dragon? Silvery grey, like… oh. His father again, dressed more casually than Sanguinius has ever seen him, in a dark room he can't recognize, sitting at a table, writing something...</p><p>And then an actual, solid vision: Sanguinius jumping down into a portal on the floor, one surrounded by stones like steps, and the sky turning violet. The sky turning violet, and a great, horrible roar, from long, long afar, a great and fearsome sound in an incomprehensible place... but in this vision, Sanguinius doesn't feel worried. He's being given strength by something. He tries to feel it out, but the vision doesn't let him know that yet... but he thinks, he thinks the confidence is that he'll—</p><p>Sanguinius jolts awake.</p><p>"What?" he whispers out loud, both ecstatic and baffled. "<em>What?</em>"</p><p>The only answer he gets is Lydia's soft snoring. Sanguinius climbs out of bed and paces around the room, unsure what to even think; it definitely felt like a vision of the future, but that couldn't... no, <em>that </em>would be ridiculous. Why? How? No, there's got to be a trick to his vision. ...And yet, a desperate, ridiculous hope blooms within Sanguinius's chest.</p><p>He paces himself into exhaustion and crashes again on the bed, this time sleeping dreamlessly into the morning.</p><p>Lydia informs him over breakfast that she went to the Grey-Manes' shop as soon as it opened and his armor is ready to be fitted, as are some clothes. He distractedly nods through her explanation, about how they'll be calling the owner of a shop in another city to Whiterun to make him clothes fitting for a thane, and how these are just common clothes adjusted for him in the meantime, and other such things. Sanguinius recalls one of the people who raised him, an elderly woman who kept asking him, at first joking and then increasingly more desperate, to stop growing; she kept having to make new clothes, and it was making her fingers hurt. He'd learnt to sew to help her, though his stitches had always been clumsy... Sanguinius realizes he hasn't sewn in years. It doesn't matter, he tells himself, but something within him twinges at the realization.</p><p>"My thane?"</p><p>Sanguinius looks over at Lydia, who's frowning just slightly. "Yes?"</p><p>"Are we setting off for Riverwood now, or are we waiting for...?" She lets herself trail off, unsure how to approach the topic. </p><p>"...We'll see how he's feeling," Sanguinius decides. "We can wait a few days, but no more. ...He'll likely want to come to Riverwood anyway, seeing as that's where his family lives."</p><p>"His family? Have you met them?"</p><p>"Only briefly." He wonders if they’ll be less alarmed at their presence now that he’s their hero, or supposed to be, at least.</p><p>“Well, it’ll certainly be an opportunity to make some money,” Lydia sighs. “You do know you’re in debt.” She gestures vaguely behind her; Sanguinius winces as he realizes there’s one less table in the inn as there was before the incident with ralof. He’d been too distracted to fully survey the damage resulting from his outburst. </p><p>“Of course,” Sanguinius replies, trying to keep his voice serene. “There’s got to be <em>something</em> to do in Whiterun, isn’t there?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>FAQ before the comments hit</p><p>Q - where have you been?<br/>A - very busy having my 18th birthday and <a href="https://twitter.com/luwupercal">remaking my twitter account</a>. also coming out to my mom and swiftly going back into the closet. also-also preparing for joining a ttrpg campaign as <a href="https://luwupercal.tumblr.com/tagged/oc%20maybe">a space marine with eyebrows drawn onto his helmet</a>. many things</p><p>Q - why did it take so long to update?<br/>A - i burned out on this fic plain and simple for like, 3 weeks, and then it took me until very recently to find a writing rhythm that didn't involve me panicking or stressing 24/7 while still making actual progress, and even then a lot of it is just winging it day by day?? i have adhd maybe please be patient (i'm trying to hold myself to a regime of 100 words a day though. 'cause 500 just kills me, but 100 might be doable)</p><p>Q - are we doing monthly updates now?<br/>A - listen, paid authors take two years to write one regular novel, i write really slow and burn out easily</p><p>Q - the events of this chapter are really fucking self indulgent, dude<br/>A - i know!! i've been looking forward to one specific scene of this chapter literally since i started writing, like, the 3rd chapter or something (i WILL elaborate in the end notes)</p><p>Q - the events of this chapter leave sanguinius looking really hypocritical<br/>A - it's like, 75% on purpose. also i'm writing by the seat of my pants also-also i'm rewriting this fic for cohesion and general error-fixing once it's done, if it makes you too mad just wait</p><p>Q - how did you do that font thing<br/>A - haha now you're gonna look for that font thing in the chapter proper! the real answer is, custom work skins babyyyy</p><p>Q - are you going to update <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119572">an unearthly child</a> ever again<br/>A - all i do is make liyan picrews so yes, absolutely, but the next thing on my pipeline is actually a <a href="https://www.blaseball.com/">blaseball</a> fic? did you know i root for the yellowstone magic? you should too. we're goo'. and mossy. apologies in advance to the boston flowers for the shit i'm going to do to their perfect beautiful weatherman. i have like, 3.4k of it written already and it's shaping up to be one of my big 7.5-10k one-shot boys</p><p>more in the end notes, but for now -- please enjoy the chapter!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sanguinius’s first day in Whiterun, after breakfast, starts with another visit to the Temple. Ralof is asleep, and a hooded woman is fussing over him; Sanguinius doesn’t try to wake him up, just stands by his side for a while, keeping him in silent companionship. </p><p>The woman eventually starts trying to talk to him, trying to talk him into doing her a favor; his half-answers end with her assuming out of him a hopeless sort-of promise to storm a nest of hagravens, whatever <em>those </em>may be, and return with sap from a special tree. Sanguinius isn’t paying her much attention, though, between his discomfort at being at a place of worship and his worry over Ralof.</p><p>Afterwards, he heads to the Bannered Mare. </p><p>On his way there, he bumps into a woman at the market, sighing in the half-shade of her stall, who isn’t even looking at him when she complains, "Life's hard enough with all these men propositioning me, but that bard is the <em>worst!</em>"</p><p>Sanguinius doesn’t even need to ask her about it; as soon as he opens his mouth to do so, she continues talking. </p><p>“That bard Mikael is begging for a dagger up against his throat, the way he goes on about me,” she complains. “I've heard him boasting at the Bannered Mare, saying he'll <em>‘conquer me as a true Nord conquers any harsh beast.’</em> Hmph.”</p><p>Sanguinius’s eyes widen, then soften. “That’s a disgusting thing for him to say. I’m sorry.” He leans a bit on the stand, towards the woman, pressing his hand flat against the wood.</p><p>The woman sighs. “It’s alright,” she tells him, “I can take care of myself. A Whiterun woman learns how to handle a few idiot men early in life.”</p><p>“Is there anything you can do?” Sanguinius presses, growing just a bit protective. </p><p>“Not much, other than tell him off, but if he tries anything, the guards will have my back.”</p><p>Sanguinius frowns. “That’s not ideal,” he points out. “What if I spoke to him?”</p><p>The woman thinks about it. “Normally, I’d doubt anyone could get through that thick skull of his. But <em>you </em>might actually have a chance.” When she looks up at him, it’s with a glint in her eye. “After all, he works at the Mare.”</p><p>Sanguinius winces, stands up straight, apologetically. Backing off a bit. “It wasn’t on purpose.”</p><p>“He doesn't know that.” She shrugs. “And you’re a damn son of a giant, from the looks of it.”</p><p>“You could say that,” Sanguinius agrees. It’s not very respectful, but it’s understandable. And, well. Sanguinius can’t say it doesn’t amuse him. “I’ll tell him to leave you alone, then.”</p><p>The woman smiles at him. “If this works, thank you. Truly.”</p><p>Lydia’s standing inside the Bannered Mare when her eyes are drawn away from the crackling fire; the soft music coming from the singing blonde bard screeches and halts to a stop. </p><p>The doors open with a too-loud squeak and Sanguinius walks inside, ducking under the doorframe. He looks around until he sees Mikael, and then all Lydia can see is an angelic wall of doom advancing towards him as he drops his instrument and nervously steps backwards.</p><p>“Ahh— I don’t, I don’t believe we’re acquainted, uhm—” Mikael stutters out, and Sanguinius tilts his head, the fire carving condescending shadows onto his face.</p><p>“You’ve been harassing someone who works at one of the stalls,” Sanguinius tells him, nicely. “A woman who doesn’t want you.”</p><p>Mikael squeaks. “Carlotta!? Y—w— she likes me, I promise, she’s just playing hard to—”</p><p>Sanguinius smiles softly. His tone is calm, polite, and warm. “I don’t think I need to tell you how many ways I have to dissuade you.” There’s a little amusement in his tone when he says, “I believe, after all, my reputation precedes me.”</p><p>Mikael wisely shuts up, and Lydia can’t help but snort. Sanguinius glances at her, breaking his intimidation-trance, and looks just a little confused at her laughter. It’s sort of cute. He looks at Mikael one last time, then crosses the room to where Lydia’s standing, ignoring the hushed whispering around him by the inn’s other patrons.</p><p>“How was Ralof?” Lydia asks him, in lieu of explaining herself.</p><p>“Asleep.” Sanguinius folds his arms over his chest, glancing around the tavern. “I’ll talk with him later. Did you find any jobs for me?”</p><p>Lydia recalls her talk earlier with Hulda, the innkeep. “No, but there’s a few things to look into,” she mentions. “Something about the Gildergreen—?”</p><p>“The woman at the Temple filled me in,” but Sanguinius nods as he says that.</p><p>“—and the Companions are always recruiting, though you’ve said before you’re not interested—”</p><p>“Perhaps later, but for now I don’t see the point,” Sanguinius concedes.</p><p>“—but there’s also rumours of something shady happening at the Jarl’s palace, and they concern me.”</p><p>Sanguinius looks at her warily. “Something shady,” he echoes, the expression just a little foreign on his tongue.</p><p>“Something to do with— with his children,” Lydia clarifies. “I noticed, before I left— it’s been going on for a few weeks, but I hoped they’d just grow out of it. If it’s reached Hulda...” Her face softens with worry. Sanguinius remembers something Lydia’s told him, a few days ago.</p><p>“The Jarl’s children— your <em>family </em>might be in trouble?” Lydia nods sharply, though she’s stricken by the bluntness in Sanguinius’s words. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could’ve gone and helped.”</p><p>Lydia’s cheeks glow with embarrassment. “You were my thane, and the Dragonborn, and— and I didn’t think to burden you with— and I hadn’t realized it was <em>this noticeable</em> a problem, and— and then you were <em>gone!</em>” she tells him, squeaky and fast-voiced.</p><p>Sanguinius sighs, though he’s smiling. “Let’s head to the Jarl’s palace, then,” he says, “and you can tell me in the meantime.”</p><p>Lydia follows Sanguinius out of the inn and out through the streets of sunny Whiterun to Dragonsreach. They stop at the market, where Sanguinius talks briefly to Carlotta Valentia, who insists on giving him some money, but then they continue onwards. Sanguinius is two steps ahead of her throughout much of the short way there, but when he reaches the stairs to the palace he waits for her to catch up with him. </p><p>Lydia looks around when she reaches him, making sure no one’s overhearing her words. Satisfied, she begins thus:</p><p>“It’s Nelkir, his youngest. He’s a bit… troubled,” she admits, “but he always got along with me better than his father. He’s been… vicious lately. More than usual. He’s always said things he doesn’t mean, cruel things, insults he read in books he… really shouldn’t be reading,” she laughs a little, in spite of herself. “But now, he says cruel things like he means them. I didn’t leave too long after this happened, and I’m worried it’s worsened in my absence. I don’t think he wants to talk to me about it, though. When I brought it up to him, he shouted… vile things at me. Called me a bastard, unfit to even…”</p><p>She doesn’t realize there are tears pricking at her eyes until Sanguinius places a hand on her shoulder and she looks up at him, and she’s suddenly awed that such a— such a <em>large </em>being could care about her problems. “...So, please talk to him, if you can,” she finishes, weakly.</p><p>“I will,” Sanguinius promises. “Let’s go looking for him, shall we?” And when he smiles, Lydia somehow believes everything will return to normal.</p><p>The Jarl is not at his throne in Dragonsreach, which makes things easier. Lydia introduces Sanguinius to two children she calls Frothar and Dagny, siblings of Nelkir: they seem somewhat downcast, but they cheer up when they meet the very Dragonborn. Then, they separate to go find Nelkir, which Sanguinius does fairly easily, considering there’s not much a child can do to avoid having squeaky footsteps on such ancient wooden floors. </p><p>Sanguinius sneaks up on Nelkir from behind and taps him on the head, and when the boy turns around, Sanguinius is forced to kneel to let Nelkir look at him properly.</p><p>“Hello, little Nelkir,” Sanguinius tries, awkwardly, and Nelkir frowns at him. He’s visibly surly, which is somewhat comical given his still-chubby cheeks, but there’s something dark in his eyes, a glint only Sanguinius catches. “Someone asked me to speak with you.”</p><p>Nelkir positively snarls. “So the disgusting pig sent you to bother me?” he spits out, bitter. “One day, I'll tear his face apart so he can leave me alone.” Sanguinius’s eyes widen; this is worse than he thought. “My father doesn't know anything about me. But <em>I</em> know things. More than he might think,” and that last bit’s added somewhat defensively. Sanguinius suddenly remembers, with full clarity, one of his bitterest, moodiest brothers. He feels like he should be counting down from ten, like he was advised once to do after dealing with him. All right. A blink, and in that microsecond, he blitzes through his outrage; <em>nine</em>.</p><p>“Your father didn’t ask me to come,” he says, somewhat in spite of himself. “But you shouldn’t speak so cruelly of him, either way.”</p><p>“Why not? He’s…” Nelkir pauses, realizing something. “Lydia licks <em>your </em>boots,” he lobs at Sanguinius, accusatorily; “<em>she</em> asked you.”</p><p>“She did, but <em>she’s </em>not here,” Sanguinius tries. “You can trust me.”</p><p>“No I <em>can’t</em>. You’re one of the pig’s lackeys.” He pouts. “I bet you’ve never hated your father before.”</p><p>The last digit of his mental countdown screeches to a halt. Of course he hasn’t hated his Father before. He’s not ungrateful, he’s not disloyal. He’s not a traitor. (He cannot…)</p><p>(...Sanguinius is glad, for the first time, that Leman isn’t here).</p><p>“You would be surprised,” is what Sanguinius says, and <em>menses of Baal</em>, he had <em>actually <strong>meant</strong></em>to say that. “What?” he blurts out, confused, but apparently, Nelkir takes it as defensive, because the boy steps back in fear.</p><p>“N-nothing!” </p><p>Sanguinius reaches for the boy, trying to soften his own face and appear a soothing, angelic presence once again, but Nelkir <em>eep</em>s and shies away from the grounding hand Sanguinius is trying to place on the boy’s shoulder. Sanguinius reluctantly backs off. Maybe <em>he</em>’s the one who needs the grounding hand, then.</p><p>There’s a brief, mutually-frightened standoff.</p><p>“...I can tell you things about my father,” Nelkir says, quietly. “Things that will make you hate him.”</p><p>“Let’s…” Sanguinius loses steam mid-sentence, needs to mentally rev himself back up, like a malfunctioning chainsword. “Let’s hear them, then.”</p><p>Bitterness returns to Nelkir’s voice. “I know that he still worships Talos,” he begins; Sanguinius isn’t sure why that’s even bad, considering the man hollering about the man-god on the street every day. “That he hates the Thalmor almost as much as the Stormcloaks do,” Nelkir continues, and Sanguinius can start seeing a problem with that; anything that might make a leader sympathize with rebels usually does. “That he worries about being chased from Whiterun.” And Nelkir takes a deep breath. “That he... that I'm... that I don't have the same mother as my brother and sister,” he blurts out; and after all these years, Sanguinius is still briefly puzzled over why that’s an issue, before remembering that families on Terra —and on this planet, too, apparently— are far smaller, and more rigidly defined, than in Baal.</p><p>So, “It’s all right,” is the first thing out of his mouth, even if he doesn’t fully get the cause of his distress; and “so’s Lydia, you know.”</p><p>“Wh… what?” Nelkir has gone from surly to shaky in record time. Sanguinius’s soothing, soft smile returns triumphantly.</p><p>“You know she’s your cousin, right?” he tells the boy, in a faintly didactic tone. Goodness, where has he been hiding this voice? Sanguinius doesn’t think he’s heard himself talk this softly in, what, maybe sixty years.</p><p>“She’s…” He thinks about it for a moment. “Uncle Hrongar’s?”</p><p>“Maybe so, she hasn’t told me.” Sanguinius compartmentalizes himself into gentleness. “But she’s— not recognized. She knows what it’s like.” He hopes, a little too late, that Lydia won’t mind him telling Nelkir this. “Well, perhaps not the same, but I think she can understand. And I think you can understand, too.”</p><p>Nelkir nods, slowly.</p><p>“Now,” Sanguinius adds, “who told you these things?”</p><p>And that’s how Sanguinius finds himself standing before a door in the basement of Dragonsreach, alone.</p><p>Lydia’s dealing with Nelkir upstairs; Sanguinius had told her he’d investigate this on his own. It was fine; the child was overhearing gossip from some servant woman through this door, and he’d merely knock on the door, and ask her to refrain from spilling the Jarl’s secrets through…</p><p>"<span class="georgia">At last,</span>” a voice wafts into Sanguinius’s ears, like sunlight, like a graceful predator sauntering into his vision. It sounds sincerely glad to see him. “<span class="georgia">I've been waiting for someone more fit to carry out my will.</span>” </p><p>Her words are carefully enunciated, as if something about dialogue Sanguinius can comprehend is just a little foreign to her; she doesn’t have an accent, but in some intrinsic, intangible way, she does. “<span class="georgia">The child is spirited,</span>” she notes before Sanguinius can even speak to her, lightly at first, then somewhat poutily, “<span class="georgia">but lacks... agency.</span>"</p><p>Sanguinius releases a soft breath, like a pneumatic hiss, and very carefully doesn’t move. The voice sounds like it came from over his shoulder more than it sounds like it came from beyond the door, and he’s scrambling to place what the feeling of hearing it is, or where he’s felt it before. </p><p>“Hello?” he tries. “Are you behind the door?”</p><p>“<span class="georgia">No… Regrettably, I cannot reach your plane so directly,</span>” she explains, faint amusement in her voice, and Sanguinius’s blood runs cold. “<span class="georgia">But I forgive you for not knowing who I am. Few hear my whispers anymore.</span>” The way the word <em>‘<span class="georgia">whispers</span>’</em> comes out of her unseen lips, sibilant like a snake, settles the matter for Sanguinius. “<span class="georgia">I... <em>am…</em></span>”</p><p>“A daemon,” Sanguinius says.</p><p>Sibilant like a rattlesnake, coiled up and indignant. “<span class="georgia">I am <em>Mephala</em>,</span>” she says, (and she only doesn’t insult him, Sanguinius thinks, because she knows her anger is the worst insult of them all), “<span class="georgia">the Lady of Whispers. I tug at the web of connections between mortals. Love, hatred, loyalty, betrayal. And I make my playthings of them all.</span>” Her tone edges towards bemused pride at the end of the sentence, but she still doesn’t sound like anyone who’d say this sort of thing. Or at least no one who would <em>and </em>who Sanguinius had met. </p><p>She isn’t condescending, not <em>openly</em>, though she <em>must</em> be, somewhere deep within, because— because there’s simply no way she <em>isn’t</em>. Sanguinius <em>can </em>recognize the trickery in her words, is the thing; but he cannot <em>find </em>it. She’s sweet, soft-spoken, gentle like she thinks —<em><span class="georgia">knows</span></em>— Sanguinius is a scared animal.</p><p>Sanguinius remembers how animals whose throats are about to be slit bleat fearfully, and how he’s held more than one of his own sobbing, insane sons through their own executions — and he completely ruins the mystique of this encounter by kicking the door open.</p><p>There’s scrambling footsteps behind him immediately, and Sanguinius turns around only to see both a gaggle of servants and Lydia, followed by guards.</p><p>“My thane—”</p><p>“There was a daemonic presence in your castle,” Sanguinius interrupts her, informing the guards gravely. The elfish woman who leads them stares at him in confusion. “Called itself Mephala,” he clarifies, and alarmed whispers start bubbling up among the slight crowd. The elfish woman — Irileth, was it? — shuts them all up with a clap of her hands and a strong stare, and then everyone else notices, to Sanguinius’s slight satisfaction, the sword that lays within the room behind him, which is giving off such an intense aura of evil that he’s unsure how it went unnoticed this long.</p><p>“There were… records…,” are Irileth’s only words, but she’s somewhat… reverse-starstruck by the sight of a Daedric artifact. Sanguinius doesn’t pay her more than passing attention, though; he’s got a plan. </p><p>He steps into the room he’s just opened —and there’s a boiling anger present within it, he can feel it, and the sensation of hearing skittering spiders— and he approaches the table upon which the sword lies, already planning. </p><p>There’s a book on the table, too. Sanguinius delicately maneuvers it so its pages sandwich the blade of the sword, and clamps down so as to not let go. He turns around and faces Irileth. </p><p>“I’m going to break this,” he says, and watches her face go pale in horror. Jaws hang slack, freed from their owners’ higher thinking; Sanguinius doesn’t want to wait until they’re ready to hold applause.</p><p>But before he can do anything, one of the guards pushes forward. He’s taken off his helmet; he’s a little younger than the beard he sports would presume, and there’s a reasonless glint in his eye. He breaches into the room; he throws himself at Sanguinius with a war cry, and the primarch steps back, lifting the book and sword away from the guard’s reach. There’s a struggle. It’s comical, at first; the guard throwing himself at the sword, and Sanguinius stepping away, weaving around with it held away far from his hands.</p><p>But then, Sanguinius makes a mistake. He’s pushed the guard away, for which he has to lower his hands, including the one holding the book and sword; his wrist slips, the bottom of his palm touches the cold metal of the sword, and the guard rushes him again, and Sanguinius reflexively grips the sword with two fingers as it runs the guard through. And the farce ends there.</p><p>There’s a pin-drop silence, and then activity bursts into the crowd. Sanguinius steps back, disturbed, as the delirious, still-alive guard is pulled away from the blade with a wet shlick. He watches the guard be taken away and thinks he can almost hear Mephala giggle; so he lets go of the book to grab the sword and split it in half over his knee. </p><p>A rush of dark smoke evacuates it. Sanguinius is caught face-first in it, coughs; he throws the pieces of the sword on the floor and steps on them, just to make sure they’re well and unusable. No guards remain by now, dispersed by their hurt comrade, but Lydia eyes the shards of the Ebony Blade warily.</p><p>Sanguinius just picks them up, slowly, stuffing them in the book as he does.</p><p>“Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme, my thane?”</p><p>Sanguinius sighs. “It’s a bit dangerous for <em>me</em>, is what it is. Certainly not <em>extreme</em>.” He puts the final piece in the book and turns to Lydia once more. “Could we borrow a shovel from the Jarl?”</p><p>Lydia wordlessly turns around in the basement they’ve been all piled up in and retrieves a shovel from a corner. “I’m sure he’ll let us borrow it,” she deadpans, handing it to Sanguinius.</p><p>“And maybe a tablecloth?”</p><p>She fishes one out from a drawer. “Why a tablecloth?” she asks him, up to the elbow in linens.</p><p>Sanguinius gestures for her to come forward. When she does, tablecloth extended into a makeshift bag, he unceremoniously drops the book — and the shards — into the cloth. Lydia freezes, eyes trained on the shards of Daedric artifact; Sanguinius takes the tablecloth by the bag’s “neck” and walks past Lydia, speeding out of Dragonsreach. </p><p>Lydia crosses the hall, hurrying behind her thane amid mass whispers; the door opens, letting in a long streak of sunlight, and then closes. She reaches it and opens it just in time to see him at the other end of the bridge, wings extended, setting off with a hop.</p><p>She waits for him for a while, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Dragonsreach. When he returns, he doesn’t have the tablecloth.</p><p>Sanguinius squints at Lydia against the sunlight, his face shadowed, blonde curls like spun gold growing in darker in the sunlight. “We’re leaving for Riverwood as soon as Ralof wakes up,” he tells her.</p><p>“How’s Ralof getting there?”</p><p>“I’ll carry him.” Sanguinius shrugs. “We’ll go walking. I don’t want to spend another minute here.” He pauses. “Sorry.”</p><p>Lydia sighs and looks away from him, at the cobblestones cooking under the light. “I should be the one apologizing.”</p><p>“You didn’t know it’d be daemonic,” Sanguinius points out. He crosses his arms. “I’ll go visit him, and you’ll get lunch for us. Pack it. We’ll eat on the way.” It’s an order, and Lydia feels a tingle through the inside of her head, like thunder behind her ears; there’s something about Sanguinius’s tone that cuts to the most primordial depths of her mind when he speaks like this, even after several days spent following him. “We’re meeting at the inn in an hour.”</p><p>Lydia wants to question how Sanguinius will convince Ralof to move in less than an hour, but she decides it’s kind of a silly question. He’ll surely just smile at everyone and do whatever he wants until he’s allowed to do whatever he wants, and then he’ll just carry Ralof off into the sunset — or the inn, whichever comes first.</p><p>Five minutes later, Sanguinius is pushing the doors to the Kynareth temple wide open and pushing away a few priestesses to reach Ralof, whose shoulder he grabs and, with all his strength, shakes. Ralof wakes up with a start, slapping around his cot and almost falling off; Sanguinius catches him and pushes him back onto it.</p><p>“What the— Sanguinius,” Ralof says, out of breath. “What’s happening?”</p><p>“We’re leaving Whiterun,” Sanguinius tells him, succinctly. His eyes are more than literally dark from Ralof’s point of view. “We’re going to Riverwood. We thought you’d like to come.”</p><p>Ralof chuckles dryly. “I’d love to, but I can’t exactly—”</p><p>“I can carry you,” Sanguinius says, serious as ever. “No flights,” he adds, seeing Ralof’s presumably horrified expression; Sanguinius’s face softens a little at that, amused.</p><p>“Do I really get a choice?” Ralof asks, a little sarcastic.</p><p>“Yes. You can stay here, or you can come with us.” Sanguinius frowns a little, puzzled; Ralof’s surprised at how dangerous that small shift can turn Sanguinius’s expression. Ralof tries to sit up and whines in pain. Sanguinius’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise at the noise, but he perseveres, asking, “So, what are you going to do?”</p><p>“I’ll go,” Ralof decides. “I’m certain the healers have realized I’m— involved in the war already, and the only reason they haven’t kicked me out is because I’m too wounded to stand.”</p><p>“Alright. We’re leaving now,” Sanguinius tells him, and before Ralof can question this, he scoops the man up —Ralof yelps!— and turns around, speedily leaving the temple. </p><p>Sanguinius doesn’t get to zoom his way to the inn and out of the city like he’d want to, though; he has to shuffle Ralof’s position in his arms several times until he finally lands in one comfortable to both of them, and once he reaches the Bannered Mare, Ralof points out someone will need to buy potions for him, for the day-long trip on foot, and Lydia just sighs and stands up. It all takes a short time, but by the end of it, Sanguinius is both a little more light-hearted and a lot antsier— enough to shoot Ralof an amused glance and nothing else when Ralof jokingly calls him a cart. </p><p>And so they set off.</p><p>Lydia and Ralof catch up during the trip, mostly ignoring Sanguinius, except for when he stumbles and Ralof winces with pain; which suits Sanguinius just fine, given that he’s got plenty to think about. </p><p>They pause to eat shortly after leaving, but Sanguinius still doesn’t exchange a word with his companions; nor does he speak during the rest of the afternoon’s travels, as the sun begins its uneasy descent. He mulls, instead, over the past few days, over this morning, and over… really, everything else; even before coming to Skyrim he was busy. </p><p>He thinks he’s starting to come down from the brutal height of emotion that was the Siege, but he’s not sure yet. Maybe he’ll only be sure once it’s done. Sanguinius hates that, though, and he thinks about how much he hates that, and how much he hates that daemonic influence will just not leave him <em>alone</em>, as he positively bores holes into the bark of the trees before him as Ralof teases Lydia over her enthusiasm in camping outside city walls.</p><p>They make a stop close to Riverwood, but not close enough that they can see it; Lydia mentions the tower they’re seeking shelter in used to be inhabited by bandits until recently, when they kidnapped a rich man whose spouse sought the Companions’ aid. Sanguinius nods through the gory details, which involve Lydia waving her arms around with an overly-dramatic wide-eyed expression and Ralof hiding obvious uneasiness behind laughter.  Sanguinius just stares at the fire, wings pressed against the wall, acutely feeling the air temperature drop.</p><p>Sanguinius half-listens, increasingly less distracted, to Lydia debating the Companions with Ralof; she cheers when he admits a sort of... let’s say visual fondness, towards one of their number, Farkas. She admits that, well, many have some form of <em>visual fondness</em> towards Farkas, but she’s rather more taken with another one’s —Aela’s— more intimidating visage. The conversation continues lightly, and Sanguinius makes the willing choice to tune in, something plucking at him from the way the two talk about their lives.</p><p>“...and he told me I should be able to put my principles aside for the good of Skyrim, can you believe it?” Ralof trails into Sanguinius’s perception, cracking his knuckles. “As if we had anything good come from the Empire— we could take on the Dominion, really, I told him, ‘Havvi, we could take them if we just had the power of the Voice back with us’. And now we do.” He sighs. “But not before he left me in the dirt.”</p><p>“You’re better off without him,” Lydia tells him, unconvinced of Ralof’s political allegiances but supportive in his romantic endeavours. “Though he does have a point— well, you didn’t listen to him, you’re not going to listen to me,” she sighs, and Ralof snorts.</p><p>“If there’s one thing that can make even childhood friendships go wrong, it’s politics,” Ralof agrees. “I’ll give it to the Empire, there’s some things of theirs that they do better than Ulfric Stormcloak — treatment of Argonians, for one. We could’ve had an <em>alliance </em>there, but <em>no—</em>”</p><p>“Back to romantic relationships, please,” Lydia begs. She turns to Sanguinius, desperate. “My thane,” she asks, “have you ever gone out with anyone?”</p><p>She realizes what she’s just asked Sanguinius when he blinks at her, confused. Ralof’s eyebrows shoot up into the stratosphere.</p><p>“Gone out?” Sanguinius repeats. “No, not significantly. I’ve been <em>courted</em>,” he mentions, off-handedly, and his two companions immediately lean in.</p><p>“Courted? Ooh,” Lydia says, a tone of whimsical gossip in her voice. Ralof is too stunned for words, so she takes the lead in asking, “By whom?”</p><p>“Oh, all sorts of people,” Sanguinius sighs. “None of which were very interesting. Remembrancers, planetary governors, leaders of small empires— the works. I turned most of them down — the ones I didn’t, well, they didn’t last very long. We weren’t very compatible.” </p><p>He knows there’s plenty of gossip, plenty of— well, he’s seen as a sort of ideal bachelor in the Imperium, but he’s just not… <em>interested</em> in most people. He’s mildly particular about what he wants from a relationship, enough for it to be an unexpected issue whenever someone who doesn’t know him tries to proposition him, and he’s made peace with that; he’s better off single and happy than trying to prove himself to someone who needs more of him than he can give. (He’s very acutely aware of how lucky he is, that everyone so far has, indeed, taken ‘no’ for an answer; he thinks of Carlotta and his hearts pang empathetically.)</p><p>“No romantic regrets, really? No loose ends, nothing sad or tragic?” Lydia prods, ignoring Ralof’s alarmed look. Sanguinius’s eyes widen. “My thane, I’m not sure I believe you.”</p><p>“I never said no <em>regrets</em>,” the Primarch blurts out, offended, and his eyes widen as he realizes what he’s said.</p><p>But it’s too late; Lydia’s leaning forward, with a curious glint in her eye. The prompt to continue is wordless, and yet, utterly unmissable. Unavoidable. Sanguinius grimaces. </p><p>Ralof looks at him, and for a moment, he thinks he’s seeing things— but no: somewhat hidden by Sanguinius’s brown skin, there indeed is a light blush, glowing high atop his cheekbones. </p><p>“It’s a secret,” he tries. “I— I really shouldn’t say.” He didn’t do anything technically <em>wrong</em>, that particular time, but it’s still— it feels. Private. </p><p>And admitting to it in this context would be… well, if word got out, it’d be devastating. His brothers wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. If they weren’t utterly <em>disgusted</em>, of course — it’s one thing to develop feelings towards the ruler of a <em>human </em>world, and another very different one to feel — not even feelings, not solid ones, not really, moreso just… a spark, with. With. </p><p>...Well. <em>At least he hadn’t been an Eldar</em>, he thinks, desperately. No shit; <em>that </em>wouldn’t have gone well. At all.</p><p>“...I won’t pry if it’s personal, my Thane,” Lydia says, softly, “but I’ll— I’m sworn to secrecy. I’m sworn to <em>serve you</em>, and if that includes secrecy, then it is secrecy I’ll keep unto death. And maybe… talking about it would help?” she guesses, correctly. </p><p>Sanguinius looks at her with meaning-dense, troubled sight. He then diverts that stare at Ralof, who startles, the panopticon’s beam heavy upon his chest. “I’ll never tell, either, I promise,” he swears. “Over Talos’s mortal remains, I swear I will keep it secret.”</p><p>Sanguinius is silent, for a moment, his gaze swiveling between the two of them. Finally, he stares at the ground between them — and for the first time ever, of this, he speaks.</p><p>“We only met once,” he begins, softly. “It was brief, and a long time ago. But we fought side by side, if ever so briefly, even if I— even if we— well, it wasn’t— I hadn’t meant to fight by his side.” <em>I’m not sure if </em>he <em>meant to</em>, he doesn’t say. “We were… supposed to be enemies, but a greater threat appeared. A sort of… onslaught of chitinous beasts. I was protecting the world’s human inhabitants, and he seemed to have… some sort of personal stake with those xeno monsters, as if he were fighting—” His exact words ring in Sanguinius’s memory; “—as if he were… holding them back. Trying to. I think that was why… I did not go after him, as soon as they were defeated— because I knew, somehow, that letting him go would be better for mankind, in the long term.” </p><p>He looks up, at the sky visible through the skylights in the tower, its rocky walls cool against the back of his head. His hair’s black roots are plainly visible; if he squints, he can just barely see them, out of the edge of his field of vision.</p><p>“An enemy commander,” Ralof echoes, hypnotized. “How… romantic.”</p><p>“Well— we never properly <em>fought </em>each other,” Sanguinius tries to defend himself, “but— yes. Uhm. <em>Though</em>.” He pauses, considering the best, least illegal way of phrasing what happened. “He <em>did… </em>ask to speak to me, privately. One…” <em>One king to another</em>, he’d said, all those years ago. “One-on-one.”</p><p>Lydia leans in further, enough to be well and imposing on Sanguinius’s personal space. “And you went?”, she asks. He pushes her back before replying, to which she giggles nervously.</p><p>“...I… I did,” Sanguinius confesses. “I <em>did </em>speak to him privately.” <em>Why did I do it?,</em> he wonders every time he remembers. </p><p>Lydia grins, enraptured. “And what did he tell you?”</p><p>Sanguinius’s lashes flutter downwards as he stares, embarrassed, at the floor. He bites at his lower lip, like how a wild animal might gnaw on its leg when caught by a snare; a ruby tear threatens to bauble over and slide down the side of his chin, as if he were feasting like his sons do. (His ichor tastes metallic, in lieu of being golden). </p><p>“He said he admired me,” he admits. “He said he thought me a wise man— a good lord, a good shepherd. He thought that I would… That I would agree to, I would <em>see the wisdom</em> in an alliance.”</p><p>Lydia squeals with excitement, but Ralof catches the sobriety in Sanguinius’s voice. “You rejected him.”</p><p>Sanguinius nods. “I’m not sure <em>what </em>I regret— speaking to him even once, or only,” he says, and it is the heaviest admission he will make tonight, but there’s been a sort of slow rapture, in his head; a blinding slow-mo flashbang of needing to know his time here is <em>real</em>, of needing to give himself away, oddly enough, to these people. </p><p>(Because if this isn’t real, then— then he’s dead. Or worse.)</p><p>Lydia whines sympathetically. She presses a hand to Sanguinius’s arm, comforting. “I’m sorry,” she says.</p><p>“It’s all right.” Sanguinius looks at her and immediately looks away, guilty. He’s not sure if the calculations he made before his confessional are as plastered onto his face as he feels like they are, <em>but </em>he doesn’t think it’s polite to admit to planning the death of those who’ve sworn silence to you. Even though he totally <em>could</em>, of course, and will if he needs to, of <em>course</em>, because he really, truly does not want this to get back to—</p><p><em>—to get back to whom? Father is likely dead, and Horus won’t care anymore, you saw him,</em> the cynical side of his brain complains. Sanguinius takes a deep breath.</p><p>“I... am going to sleep, now,” he decides. “I’m not hungry— you two take my rations, I’ll eat when we get to Riverwood.”</p><p>Sanguinius stands up, and his two companions keep looking at him, in silence, as he climbs the stairs up further in the tower, where abandoned beds are left over from highwaymen whose corpses have already been cleaned.</p><p>When he sits down on the mattress, he wonders if he should’ve told them of <em>his </em>inhumanity as well, the way his face-plate gleamed silver in the morning-light. How most of his troops did not speak. The subtle whirring noise that came with his very presence, one Sanguinius can’t but commit to memory, his superhuman mind be damned. </p><p>But he sort of— <em>knows</em>, in a way he can’t really articulate, that he would’ve had to tell them of his humanity, too, if he’d told them that. How <em>he’d </em>paused mid-sentence, hands coming to a stop in mid-air, like strange metallic beetles, as he’d thought of how to phrase things; his pleasant surprise when Sanguinius had started signing back to him; how he’d slowly repeated the correct term for Sanguinius’s station (<em>‘not prince’</em>, Sanguinius had told him, <em>‘Primarch’</em>), as if committing it to memory. </p><p>And how he’d looked at his men, and how Sanguinius had looked at him, looking at his men, and had seen himself reflected far more than literally. How he knew they both carried that same sort of emotion, that weight that was almost guilt.</p><p>...He cuts his dwelling off there and falls onto the bed. Its weak legs instantly give in, and the wooden frame the too-small mattress is on hits the ground. Sanguinius startles with the impact, then grumpily turns over and forces his eyes closed. He thinks he might as well be on a holiday to the Warp, the way he’s acting; and really, it’s hard to disagree.</p><p>His sleep is dreamless, for once.</p><p>The next day, they set off early in the morning, and before midday Riverwood is in sight. Lydia prods Sanguinius during the trip, trying to get him to act friendly. She’s not discouraged by Sanguinius’s silence, though he does humor her a few times, respond to her comments— but as soon as any topic with more weight than a feather comes up, Sanguinius clams back up. </p><p>“...You said you’d found a letter?” Ralof asks Lydia, in the midst of an awkward silence; he turns to peer back at his hometown, which is closing in. Sanguinius pretends to ignore the man he’s carrying.</p><p>Lydia boggles, for a moment, then nods quickly. “It said to go to Riverwood, apparently,” she says; “I’m not sure, I didn’t read it.”</p><p>“It said to go to the Sleeping Giant inn and ask for the attic room.” Sanguinius’s voice is teetering on the edge of total flatness, but it’s not quite there yet.</p><p>“Espionage in my hometown,” Ralof muses. “Never would’ve thought it. It always felt sleepy to me. ...Though if it had to be anywhere in Riverwood,” and he squints, momentarily blinded by the flare of the sun, “it’d be in that inn.” He pulls on Sanguinius’s arm, to adjust their mutual posture.</p><p>Sanguinius props him up a little higher. “Why?”</p><p>“The newest owner, a woman named Delphine, is a recent arrival. Relatively recent. I remember it was shortly after the Great War ended — just before I left to enlist. Her and that elf — Faendal — are the newest arrivals to town, and <em>he’s </em>just here to work at the mill. Everyone else’s been here since they were born. No one comes here, we only leave,” Ralof muses. </p><p>He finds Lydia and Sanguinius shooting him identical looks of confusion; he’s the only small town-born of the three, what with Sanguinius’s childhood having been nomadic and Lydia being a city slicker. So he just shrugs, and Sanguinius has to compensate for the sudden movement as Ralof winces, having apparently forgotten the reason he’s being carried, and also having pulled on something that hurts.</p><p>“We’re almost there,” Lydia points out once they settle down, a little obviously; amidst the greenery of their path, several cabins and the smell of freshly-cut wood approach them. Sanguinius hurries up wordlessly, and Lydia follows after him.</p><p>When Sanguinius steps onto the street (singular) of Riverwood proper, a few people are watching him from their porches; he ignores them, heading for Ralof’s sister’s home and knocking on the door. She obviously isn’t expecting <em>him</em>, of all people, to be the one in front of the door, but Sanguinius gets to enter the house and deposit Ralof on a bed, his housecarl lingering in the doorway, exchanging awkward glances with the Nord’s family. </p><p>Sanguinius takes a step back after placing him on the bed, but Ralof holds onto his arm and tugs. </p><p>“...I’ll be back adventuring with you as soon as I recover,” Ralof promises, after a momentary pause, and Sanguinius nods. “I’m serious. Stay alive until then, all right?”</p><p>“Take care, Ralof,” is the only thing Sanguinius says, and Ralof lets go of him, so he steps out of the house and stops inconveniencing the family. </p><p>He’s not two steps out of the door when he grimaces, involuntarily, as if he’d caught his toe on something; Lydia frowns at him, confused, but Sanguinius doesn’t elaborate on what he’s thinking about, so Lydia just follows him to the inn.</p><p>The <em>Sleeping Giant</em> is empty; the man behind the counter is gone, and the only person who remains is the blonde woman. Sanguinius beelines for her, Lydia remaining a few hesitant steps behind him, and bluntly asks her for the attic room.</p><p>She looks him up and down, and grins. “I knew it,” she says, then, “We don't have an attic room, but you can have the one on the left. Follow me.”</p><p>Sanguinius shoots Lydia a look; Lydia nods and sits at a table, and Sanguinius follows Delphine to his room. He closes the door after him and turns around; the woman’s opening the door to a closet, behind which is a hole carved into the wall. Sanguinius tries to step into it, and finds it’s too small for him to even duck into. </p><p>He resorts to crawling through it, undignified, wings squeezed so they may fit.</p><p>At the other end of the tunnel, there’s a teeny-tiny basement. It, too, is too small for Sanguinius; he ducks until he’s shown to a chair, and he immediately takes a seat, relieved.</p><p>The woman stands behind the table. “The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn,” she begins. “I hope they're right."</p><p>“I’m sure yet myself,” Sanguinius offers. “You are…?”</p><p>As he speaks, she turns and pulls out a dark, sharp horn. She offers it to him. “Delphine. I think you're looking for this.”</p><p>Sanguinius takes the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and leaves it on his side of the table. “Why have you brought me here?” he begins. </p><p>"It was the only way I could make sure it wasn't a Thalmor trap,” she sighs. “Listen, I'm not your enemy. I already gave you the horn. I'm actually trying to help you. I just need you to hear me out."</p><p>“I’m all ears,” Sanguinius says, utterly unimpressed.</p><p>“Well, like I said in my note,” she begins, “I've heard that you might be Dragonborn.” She pauses to press her lips together just for a moment, thinking of how to say the following, then continues. “I'm part of a group that's been looking for you— well, for someone <em>like </em>you, for a very long time. In several ways. But before I tell you any more, I need to make sure I can trust you.”</p><p>Sanguinius frowns, confused. “How do <em>I </em>know if I can trust <em>you</em>?”, he counters, a little distracted. </p><p>“Well, if you don’t trust me, you were a fool to walk in here with me in the first place,” she flatly tells him. Sanguinius raises an unimpressed eyebrow.</p><p>“Why take the horn?”, he continues.</p><p>“I knew the Greybeards would send you there if they thought you were Dragonborn. They're nothing if not predictable,” she scoffs. “When you showed up here, I had my suspicions confirmed.”</p><p>“Are you looking for me <em>because </em>I’m this ‘Dragonborn’?”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“<em>We</em> remember what most don't: that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer. Only your kind can kill a dragon permanently — by devouring its soul.” She looks up at him, eyes fiery, but… unsure. “Can you do it?” she asks him. “Can you devour a dragon’s soul?”</p><p>Sanguinius doesn’t say anything for a moment, his face a careful, well-practiced mask. “...It’s been said I’ve done this,” he settles on telling her. Then he ripostes with, “What is it you’re not telling me?”</p><p>Delphine laughs. “There’s a lot I’m not telling you. There’s not a lot I can tell you,” she adds. “Here’s what you need to know: Dragons aren't just coming back, they're coming <em>back to life</em>. They weren't gone somewhere for all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life. And I need <em>you </em>to help me stop it.” </p><p>There’s a lie in that sentence, Sanguinius can tell from a thousand miles away, but he can’t tell you where — so he decides to trust her. If she’s untrustworthy, well, there isn’t much he can’t fight his way out of. “I’ve heard stranger things,” he says. Xenos <em>have </em>been on record as doing things like these before. “How did you learn of this?” </p><p>“...I've visited their ancient burial mounds and found them empty,” she says, equal parts disbelieving and defiant. “And I've figured out where the next one will come back to life. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I'll tell you anything you want to know.”</p><p>Sanguinius can tell where the lie in that sentence is. “So, where are we headed?”</p><p>“Kynesgrove. There's an ancient dragon burial near there. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we'll learn how to stop it.”</p><p>“I’ve no idea where that is.”</p><p>“I’ll take you there.”</p><p>“And my housecarl?”</p><p>“Who, that girl? She’ll stay here. I don’t trust her yet.”</p><p>“Girl? She’s in her thirties.” Early ones, maybe even late twenties, but nonetheless.</p><p>“So was I during the war. She’s seen nothing,” Delphine scoffs. “Are you coming or not?”</p><p>“What, <em>now?”</em></p><p>“We don’t have all day.”</p><p>“These wings aren’t for show,” Sanguinius tells her. “We <em>do</em>.”</p><p>“...Fine,” she sighs. “Let me get in my travelling gear, we’ll eat and we’ll set off. Happy now?”</p><p>The basement room is dark; Sanguinius can’t fully see Delphine’s face, can only judge her by her words, really.  He thinks of Ralof. Sanguinius already said goodbye fifteen minutes ago; if anything, Lydia can tell him. If he wants to say goodbye or not is irrelevant. It’d be awkward, anyway.</p><p>And so, Sanguinius settles on, “Satisfied.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>more answers!</p><p>Q - <i>delphine????????</i><br/>A - you know, i actually unironically really like delphine as a character. she's got that sort of... like, okay, i watched the matrix for the first time recently and morpheus was my fave for much the same reasons? very like, one-track-minded, surprisingly human and fallible in that one-track mindset behind their leaderly façade of coolness... i dunno, i think they're neat</p><p>Q - that... wasn't an answer<br/>A - oh and spoil you? </p><p>Q - okay rewind. does sanguinius have a crush on a fucking <i>necron</i><br/>A - did you know there's a short story where the blood angels meet the ruler of all necrons, the silent king szarekh, and he has a death mask of sanguinius, not unlike dante's, but where dante's is snarling and defiant, in the midst of battle, the silent king's shows him "at his most benevolent and peaceful. The face of a king. A ruler supreme", quote the story (and also "curiously more androgynous", which is CURIOUS indeed). Did you know the guy who speaks for him literally says "Mighty Szarekh, last and greatest of the Silent Kings, honours your angel-father and the accord that we wished to strike with him in ages past. [...] [He] would have seen the wisdom in this alliance". Did you know that ever since i gained this knowledge <a href="https://luwupercal.tumblr.com/tagged/szarekhguinius">i have been steadily going insane</a>. Love wins. Love fucking wins</p><p>Q - are you going to wr<br/>A - YES I'LL WRITE AN ACTUAL FIC OF THESE TWO. THANK YOU FOR ASKING</p><p>Q - here in your szarekh/sanguinius tag you posted a snippet that shows you used the beetle thing in another f<br/>A - <i>SHUT.</i> YES. I DID. i like it. i like it. i like that turn of phrase. i like to say phrases i enjoy as you can tell from literally anything ive ever written</p><p>Q - can you elaborate on that thing sanguinius thinks about being really particular about relationships<br/>A - honestly i kind of dont want to for a few reasons but this is a valid question. feel free to speculate</p><p>Q - so is that the final answer to the whole harem joke<br/>A - MAYBE. anders (my plot development rubber ducky/emotional support "played skyrim for the first time a couple days ago" morrowind superfan/vivec enjoyer/friend who listens to me talk about this fic) is team Ralof though. but i'm not really team anyone in particular. we haven't even met the full cast yet, i want sanguinius to do more sidequests! it might take a backseat to the plot though</p><p>Q - anything else to say<br/>A - shoutout to that guy on fanfiction dot net who wanted to ask me over private messages if sanguinius would fuck mephala. (dril voice) buddy they wont even let me fuck her</p><p>stay safe everybody! cya on the next update!</p>
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